Shadows of Hope
by Hawki
Summary: Hope, both a distant world orbiting a dim star and an emotion which is in short supply. And as the ninth year of the Human-Covenant War draws to a close, both world and word will have a shadow cast over them.
1. The Calm Before the Storm

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**Halo: Shadows of Hope**

**Chapter 1: The Calm before the Storm**

Silence.

That was its state of existence. Silence. Silence had hung over it like a shroud, protecting it against the currents of time, from the madness of infinitude. Not that it was vulnerable to the weakness of emotion, but even so, that did not exclude it from the other weaknesses of life. Like its makers, fighting against the tides of fate crying out against the darkness. Even if they had succeeded, what then? Death would come slow and final regardless of what they did. Such was the pain of existence.

Ten times ten thousand years it had stood there, buried beneath the sands of time, and, gods willing, would remain there a thousand times a thousand more. Right up to the end of eternity, unto the extinction of flesh and spirit, where the pallid flames of life and stars no longer defied eternity. Such was ideal circumstances for its creators. Such things were best left forgotten, never to be reclaimed.

Unfortunately, the universe had other plans…

* * *

**Chi Mu System, Mobile Research Station **_**Aeros**_

**Geo-stationary orbit around planet Hope**

It had been one of the worst mornings of Dr. Mina Harwood's life and if someone had told her that there was a good chance that it could have been her last, she would have either laughed at said individual, told them to piss off or let slip that they were right and deal with the consequences. Not that the third option was much different from the other two, but the process of dealing with a leak of classified info was something that she wasn't particularly keen on dealing with.

_It would almost be fitting in a way, _thought the scientist grimly, staring out into the void of space through one of the station's windows while sipping coffee that tasted like…well, something unpleasant. Sighing, she rubbed her eyes, too tired to think of a simile.

_The worst week of my life, with the worst days being at the beginning and end of it._

Although the back of Harwood's mind reminded her that she was being over-melodramatic, that the same thought process had occurred regularly over the last three years, the scientist couldn't have cared less. The incident last week still gave her nightmares and perhaps due to what had occurred, Santa Claus had been stingy. Christmas was dreary enough at the best of times but all Harwood had received on the day of merrymaking was lab notes and what she supposed was wine, both of which contributing to a hangover that still seemed to be with her. It at least showed physically, wisps of golden hair clinging to her forehead, bloodshot hazel eyes and regular comments of "Jesus ma'am, you look like shit," not giving her a good impression.

_Or maybe it's just because today is the day, _Harwood thought, taking another sip of the coffee and regretting it, looking around for a waste chute. _The day where I put my other foot in the grave and pull one of humanity's out of it, or simply walk away from my grave while leaving mankind to rot in his. _Finding a chute and dumping the plastic cup and its brown liquid down with a vengeance, Harwood checked her watch. 0602 hours. Clarke was late.

"That's a first," she murmured, once again returning to looking out the window. "Times change I guess."

There was bitter irony in those words. Time…the cruelest master that life could have.

Nine years had passed since times changed for the worst. Mankind had always looked up to the heavens, ever since its ancestors had crawled out of Earth's oceans and looked up at the night sky with awe and wonder. It had been a desire to explore that had led Homo sapiens to spread across their homeworld's surface just as much as necessity. It was once again the desire to explore that had led Terra's sons and daughters to rediscover each other. Such a trait had kept with them even after the world had been mapped and studied, turning to the stars with the same feeling that had first been felt ever since the land was colonized. January 1st, 2362 had been the day where this desire had become manifest, the _Odyssey _being launched to explore the heavens just as much as its function was to pave the way for man's soon-to-be galactic empire.

Nothing would stop them. The galaxy was a void, the chunks of solar matter promptly terraformed to suit the needs of Earth's children. It was a disappointment really, that the galaxy was so empty. No sapient creatures to spread the fruit's of civilization, nothing to shake the hope, the yearning that humans were not alone in the universe. Nothing to help SETI's funding. Humanity was free to shape the galaxy in his own image, free of interference. Woot.

Of course, that had been the notion only up to 2525, where humanity's hopes and dreams had become manifest in first contact with a sentient species at the Outer Colony of Harvest. Problem was, first contact had consisted of this species vaporizing every inhabited area of Harvest, every _uninhabited_ area of Harvest, vaporizing the majority of an expeditionary fleet to see why all contact with the world had been lost and, to top it off, declaring that it intended on doing the same to the rest of man. Hell of a way to make a first impression.

Harwood smiled bitterly, remembering the first time that the incident was finally reported in the media. She'd been sixteen at the time, her stomach churning in excitement when it had been announced that first contact with an alien species. With images of what was left of Harvest and the aliens' transmission aired, basically stating that humanity was an affront to their gods and therefore had to be eradicated, her stomach had remained churning, but for the wrong reasons. It took two times to flush the toilet after that, fear having manifested in a physical way. And a smelly one too.

"Ma'am?"

Harwood spun around, her reflections interrupted. She gave a small smile, looking at her watch again.

"Seven minutes late Clarke. Care to explain why?"

The reaction was not unexpected, Alex Clarke looking more nervous than he usually did, his untidy red hair seemingly filled with static electricity, looking every bit the "mad scientist." In three years of working with the man, Harwood had never fully understood why he was so jittery, why he constantly looked like he was terrified of everything, anything and whatever else had an 'ing suffix. She'd eventually asked why, the response jokingly being that he was uneasy as to the prospect of having a woman as his superior. The mock scowl that Harwood had sent his way had silenced him and somehow made him even _more _jittery.

Harwood had resolved not to ask again.

"Sorry ma'am," Clarke murmured, Harwood suspecting that if it wasn't for his small amount of self control he'd be crossing his heart by now. "The false alarm…I…"

"Overslept?" Harwood asked indignantly, putting her hands on her hips like some bitchy housewife. Clarke gave a small nod, what sounded like a whimper escaping.

Harwood sighed. Even if she had been angry at Clarke, she could have hardly blamed him for his tardiness. Sleep hadn't come easily to them in ages and being woken up at four in the morning, alarms blaring, hadn't done them any favors.

In the aftermath of what had been a false alarm, Harwood found out its source. A group of objects, all within a few kilometers of each other in what could have easily been some kind of formation had been detected by the station. Given what had occurred at Harvest, Harwood found the jumpiness understandable. The aliens, or the Covenant as they apparently called themselves, had utilized ships far superior to what the UNSC employed and the notion of a fleet of the angels of death hadn't been particularly enticing. Vice Admiral Cole had finally retaken the system in 2531 at the cost of two thirds of his battle group despite a 3:1 advantage. Harwood was no military strategist, but with three ships protecting the planet, the odds of survival could be summed up in one word-"zilch."

_But it was a false alarm, _Harwood reassured herself, going over the facts. The objects hadn't emerged from slipspace for starters. And besides, if they were Covenant, the genocidal bastards would have probably headed straight for them. Shaken but relieved, Harwood had spent the last two hours stargazing. Clarke however, had obviously gone back to sleep.

"Anyway, it doesn't matter," said Harwood eventually. "Let's go. We're running late." With that, she started walking down the hallway, Clarke murmuring something incomprehensible before following. Smiling, Harwood wondered, not for the first time, whether Clarke considered himself and his superior to be akin to Macbeth and his wife respectively, the latter forcing the former to do things against his nature. Still, even if he did, Harwood knew, or at least told herself, that the analogy was incorrect. She wasn't a sociopath, she had yet to be de-sexed by evil spirits and certainly wasn't doing the things the powers that be ordered them to because she enjoyed it.

2531…it had been a turning point for her too, just as much as it had been for Cole, discovering that numerous Outer Colonies had suffered the same fate as Harvest and had thus turned his fleet around to try and save them all. 2531 had been the year that she had graduated from uni with a degree in biotechnology, Office of Naval Intelligence representatives literally waiting for her at the door, figuratively saying that "your life is over. You work for us now."

Project: Reaper was that work. Hope was the location. A project with perhaps the most unoriginal title in history and the most inappropriately named planet in human space. A match made in Heaven.

Glancing down at the planet through another window, Harwood tried, but failed, to imagine a planet placed in a situation of even greater irony and paradox. She wasn't exactly sure how Hope was classified, the planet either being the innermost of the Outer Colonies or outermost of the Inner Colonies and had given up inquiring into databases, the answer always differing. Its name was just as strange, the emotion that it was named after having yet to manifest as far as she could tell. It had an ideal atmosphere akin to Earth, but that was where the similarities ended. Unproductive blackened soil, grey clouds covering the entire planet…

It was the clouds that were the main antagonists to the planet's namesake. Regular lightning storms that fried unprotected electrical equipment, the rarer but much deadlier plasma storms being another hazard. It didn't rain down there, it poured, the clouds constantly loaded with water despite the lack of any significant bodies of water. Roughly the size of Mercury but with a rotation similar to that of Earth, only one settlement was located on the planet, namely in its equatorial region. The only place where sufficient sunlight penetrated the thick clouds for agriculture to be carried out.

Not that agriculture was carried out nowadays. In addition to its isolation, Hope had been chosen as a base for the project and other weapon programs due to the minerals it contained. Mineral wealth was Hope's only claim to fame, an entire quarry existing seven miles north of the planet's sole settlement. Possessing everything from iron to high energy lithium-triteride, a mass driver on the surface had been lined up with the _Aeros_, providing ample and easy to deliver supplies for their work…the devil's work.

_It's almost fitting really, _Harwood thought, approaching Lab 66, reflecting that with an extra six added it would be as accurate a representation of immorality as possible. It was equally fitting that two marines stood either side to the door to hell, acting as silent sentinels. Well, at least silent for most the time, Harwood often hearing lines akin to "ONI arseheads." Harwood was always tempted to make a comment about the fact that marines would know all about people with heads in their arses but always managed to hold back. The gung-ho simpletons had been here for three years and would probably size upon any excuse to 'rock and roll' as they called it.

Twats.

"You took your time," one of the two soldiers grunted, leaning back against the wall like the cocky prick he was. "Had a sleep in or something?"

"No, simply wanted to put off having to come down here," Harwood murmured, taking out a keycard. Slotting it into the scanner by the door, she proceeded to undergo the usual retinal, fingerprint and voice identification procedures and a code that changed daily-12/29/34 in this case.

"Yeah, why's that?" the other one asked, his sideways, almost guilty glances at Harwood indicating that it wasn't the only thing on his mind.

"Because I have to deal with idiots that emerged from the shallow end of the gene pool," Harwood murmured, not knowing nor caring whether the guards overheard. With a final click her voice pattern was accepted, the door hissing open, a weapons rack opening up in the wall to the side.

"Usual procedure," Harwood murmured, walking in followed by Clarke, the latter giving shifty glances at the two soldiers outside. With another hiss, the door closed, sealing hell off from purgatory.

"How do you put up with them?" asked Clarke, watching as his superior began typing a combination on a keypad.

"Pardon?" Harwood asked, finishing the final stages of the code, two sections of wall sliding up in response. One displayed elegant armor, reminiscent of Mark IV MJOLNIR armor, but far more elegant, more sophisticated. Shoulder plates and a headpiece reminiscent to that of a samurai, an ornate chestplate and a trio of spikes on the side of the head, it was as much a piece of art as it was of armor.

So unlike its future wearer…

"I asked how you put up with them," Clarke repeated, looking around the room with nervous eyes, the lab still giving the creeps after three years of working in it. "The marines outside."

"A necessary evil, and therefore bearable" Harwood grunted, typing on a terminal that would monitor energy readings. "You know that as well as I do."

Clarke made a noise similar to a mouse being trod on, a reaction that Harwood could understand. Subject SR-005 had been…problematic, to say the least.

_And who's to say that SK-018 will be any different? _Harwood wondered, ignoring the whir of an operating table descending and robotic arms grasping the armor, separating it into its various components. _Who's to say that we won't have a repeat of last week?_

Turning towards the neutral buoyancy tank that held the subject, nothing more than a disfigured skeletal structure as far as she could tell, Harwood wondered about the possibilities, about what should happen if the results were less than desired. Would ONI Section III close shop, cutting its losses and relocating UNSC forces on Hope elsewhere? Would it provide more subjects? Or would it do something else, something that Harwood guessed would be based around "dealing with incompetence"?

Not wanting to consider the possibilities, the scientist stepped forward, grasping hold of one of the two keys required to drain the tank, Clarke grasping hold of the second one.

"We don't have to do this you know."

Harwood inhaled deeply and slowly turned to face her counterpart. "Don't we?" she whispered.

"Of course not," said Clarke simply, displaying more resolve than Harwood would have thought possible. "We're above a backwater world in the wake of a galactic war, with mankind fighting tooth and nail for his survival. Do you really think ONI will care if-…"

"Like you said, we're in this for our survival," Harwood interrupted, her hazel eyes blazing with conviction that both of them knew was false. "And to survive, sometimes the soul must be sacrificed."

"…and that's an acceptable price?"

Harwood didn't answer, instead slowly turning back to gaze upward at the tank. One way or another a life would end today, a life that had already been ruined years ago. Subject SK-015 was a monument to humanity's sins…and God willing, was possibly going to represent many more. Reminding herself that she still retained a moral code, that this was not something she relished, Harwood slowly turned back to Clarke.

"Drain it."

* * *

**Chi Mu System, Mine Route 01,**

**Planet Hope**

"Hey Ardo?"

"Yeah?"

"Why was this planet called Hope again?"

Driving a mineral harvester along a track that seemed to want to plunge the vehicle down into the valley below, nineteen year old Ardo Turner toyed with the idea of doing the track's work for it. Not that he suffered from vertigo or had particularly suicidal tendencies, but even so, the chance to escape from his sister's idiotic questions smelt of paradise.

_Or not_," he thought sullenly, running a hand across his short black hair. _Tara would probably follow suit and meet me in the afterlife, wanting to-…_

"Ardo?"

Sighing, the harvester's driver turned to face his sister, the dark haired, dark eyed girl leaning back against the passenger's seat like some kind of junkie, the type of person who fitted into a setting, but for the wrong reasons. Eighteen years old, she may as well have been six, her physical maturation having progressed without that of the psychological kind. Right now though, he could trace her question to a single, simple aspect. Boredom.

"Jesus Tara, don't you ever listen to me?" Ardo murmured, knowing full well that it was a rhetorical question. "I've explained it a dozen times."

"Fine. Make it fourteen times."

"…a dozen is twelve, dumbass."

"Whatever," Tara shrugged, her lack of mathematical ability not bothering her in the slightest. "Just explain." She gave a small smile. "Indulge me."

Ardo would have loved to point out the fact that he indulged Tara's interests far more than his own but decided against it, knowing that it wouldn't do him any good.

"Alright, I'll explain it once more," he sighed, putting the harvester in a higher gear so they could get back sooner. "The planet's called Hope because of what it represented to the early colonists.

"Really?" Tara somehow managed to sound both interested and bored at the same time.

Ardo nodded, going on to explain how Hope had been one of the earliest of humanity's interstellar colonies. Despite being a speck of dust in a sea of stars, it had a single redeeming feature in that unlike many other worlds, it possessed an atmospheric ratio similar to that of Earth and therefore didn't require terraforming. Although not the most appealing of worlds, it was a welcome beacon for the would-be colonists, most of who came from South America. Although more than a century had passed since the Rainforest Wars, part of the much wider Interplanetary War which saw humanity united under one government in 2170, the continent was still suffering from a crippled infrastructure and famine, not to mention the overpopulation crisis which had gripped the planet.

"Problem was, they dropped them on the pimple on the arse of the universe," Ardo continued, wiping back his dark brown hair which complemented his tanned Latin skin; a rarity as it was on Hope, the low light ensuring that most of its citizens possessed a pale complexion.

"And what makes it that?" Tara asked.

"What, you need me to tell you?" Ardo grunted, lowering the harvester down a gear as he neared the bend. "Hardly any sunlight, no native flora or fauna, low soil productivity… Hell, by all rights we shouldn't even be able to live on this dirtball."

Tara gave her brother a puzzled look, a small light in her grey eyes that complemented her pale skin; a combination of more Caucasian characteristics and low light conditions. Ardo remained silent. He could have gone on to explain that Hope somehow possessed a magnetic field despite the fact that its core was seemingly dead, that without a magnetic field they'd be fried by UV rays, but decided against it. It would take him hours to fully explain it to the ditz and besides, such a paradox existed on Mars as far as he could tell.

"Fair enough," said Tara after a moment's silence. "But why haven't we changed the name yet?"

"What?"

"Come on Ardo, you just explained how crap this place is." She gave a faint smile. "Why not change its name to reflect this?"

"…like what?" Ardo didn't like where this was going.

"Oh I don't know," shrugged Tara. "How about Dirthole?"

"You can't be serious."

"Planet Backwater?"

"No…"

"Craptastic?"

"Why me…?"

"Or how about-…"

"Damn it Tara, shut up!" Ardo yelled, slamming on the brakes. He shot a look at her, but not one of rage. In fact, come to think of it, he wasn't he even looking at her. He was looking out the window…up at the sky…

Following his gaze, Tara saw what it was.

Something was coming towards them. Something fast. Something that Tara initially guessed was a comet, but soon realized that this wasn't the case. Comets weren't made of metal for starters, or at least metal welded into a distinct shape. Nor did they apply afterburners, albeit ones that didn't seem to be much good. And above all, comets didn't head directly for the harvester you were in…right?

Tara didn't know. What she _did _know, albeit on the subconscious level, was that Ardo was yelling something while pulling her out of the harvester. Automatically she and her brother began running up the path, the wind having suddenly picked up. With a roar the…thing shot over them, the two teens diving forward as it did so. Their truck wasn't so lucky however. The object had come down with such speed that it had shook the valley path, the vibrations so powerful that the harvester had shifted precariously close to the edge…an edge that decided to promptly collapse. With a groan of metal, as if it were its death cry, the harvester toppled down into the abyss.

"There goes our truck," said Tara simply.

"Oh, ya think!" Ardo exclaimed, rushing over to the ledge to check upon the harvester, or rather, what was left of it. Caught between rocks and a hard place, the harvester's metal frame had shown how cruel gravity and velocity could be.

"Jesus, Riley's going to kill me…" Ardo murmured, carrying out a quick calculation in his head as to how long he'd be paying off the damage costs. Probably a year. At the minimum.

_But what the hell was that? _Ardo asked himself. _What the hell are those bastards upstairs doing?_

Ardo quickly gave up wondering. He knew precious little of what those above the planet did, or why they were here, and until now, he never really cared. Something about fighting some fictional conglomeration of aliens as far as he could tell, all part of some conspiracy to acquire funds for the UNSC's military. But this…this was just too far.

"Um, Ardo?" Tara asked tentatively, breaking the silence.

"_What?" _her brother asked, not really irritated, but simply just plain tired. His truck had gone off the cliff, Riley was never going to believe what happened, and somehow, those spooks from some naval intelligence group had poked him in the eye again. Therefore, the sight of some kind of…control panel made out of solid light (solid in that Tara's hand was resting on it) revealed by some of the inner cliff face giving way, came as a bit much.

"What do you make of it?" Tara whispered, gazing at the control panel as if she'd never seen something made out of solid light of green and purple before. Well, technically she hadn't and neither had Ardo, but that wasn't the point.

"Leave it," said her brother firmly. "We're heading home."

"_Leave it?"_Tara asked indignantly, glancing back at her brother as if he'd said something horrible about their long deceased parents. "Part of the cliff wall collapses revealing something of non-human origin and you want to _leave _it?"

Ardo couldn't help but wonder how Tara could marvel at a light show when their truck had been destroyed and something had fallen from the sky in the last five minutes, but didn't have time to ask why. The fact that Tara was looking at the panel with intense interest, as if she was possessed by it, made him favor caution. Truth be told, he felt drawn to it too. The strange symbols…they were nothing like he'd seen, or what anyone had seen for that matter, but he felt…drawn to them, as if he was meant to understand them but had failed to do so. It was what made him want to leave ASAP.

It was also what made his sister press the centre button.

Ardo immediately knew that Tara had done the wrong thing. After all, valleys weren't meant to shake like it was Judgment Day at the touch of a button. Entire cliff faces at the end of the valley, to the north, weren't meant to collapse at a moment's notice. And giant structures of non-human origin were _definitely_ not meant to rise up from the ground on a backwater planet.

It was the last aspect that really got Ardo's attention, along with his sister. They watched as the structure rose from the ground, the valley eerily silent. It was reminiscent of the prow of one of the wooden ships used in Earth's early history. It looked out over the valley like a sentinel, its surface smooth and polished despite being buried underneath tones of rock for God knew how long. Majesty radiated from its being, but also foreboding.

Yet nothing could compare to the light show that followed, a pillar of pure white energy streaking up into the dark clouds and beyond. Light flickered throughout the dark sky, like lighting, yet calm, controlled. Silent, yet with more intensity than even the most powerful of Hope's plasma storms. Foreboding, yet beautiful. A show that mankind's thirst to explore the heavens, a desire present ever since his ancestors had crawled out of the sea and looked up at the sky in awe and wonder, was not misplaced, yet was an insignificant, fleeting desire that was irrelevant in the greater scheme of things.

It was all and one, one and all. It was beauty and terror incarnate. It was a display of raw power that had the two teenagers staring at it for what felt like eternity, an eternity that was broken by one single word, a word which broke the spell that hung over them…

"Shit."

* * *

_A/N_

_I'm wary of having authors' notes dragging on to the extent that they effectively become a story in itself. However, there is a bit of a story behind this...story and while it's better covered in my profile, I thought it best to lay out the basics._

_This is actually the third incarnation of _Shadows of Hope_, rebuilt from the ground up. The first, dating back to October, 2006, was from my early days of writing, back when I was working on numerous multi-chaptered fics with little sense of direction or quality control. The fic back then, while not the most original concept, was enough for me to return to, but deleted due to extremely poor writing. The second was a bit better, but reached a dead end due to canon issues, as _Halo Wars _and _The Cole Protocol _rendered some aspects moot. So now, finally, four years and two months after this fic first appeared, I've started posting its third and hopefully final incarnation-the last of the 'black sheep' fics from my early days that were either completed or discontinued. Not my favourite of the fics, given what I feel is a cliche storyline, but hopefully a bit more decent than what it started off as._

_Then again, probably best to let readers do the judging._

_(2011-08-06)_

_Corrected spelling orders, including MJOLNIR typo. Indeed meant to be Mk. IV._


	2. Shadow of the Covenant

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**Halo: Shadows of Hope**

**Chapter 2: Shadow of the Covenant**

_**CCS**_**-class battlecruiser **_**Divine Crusader**_

**Outer reaches of Chi Mu System**

Freedom…it was an almost abhorrent concept to the Covenant.

An exaggeration perhaps, but the notion still possessed a degree of merit. The value, if any, of the thoughts and beliefs of an individual were not really emphasized in Covenant society, given the nature of the caste system. After all, why should there be? A conglomeration of races, once scattered among the stars, now brought together in unity, completely dedicated to walking the true path. All were one and one was all, ranging from the highest san 'shyuum to the lowliest unggoy. The Great Journey awaited and unlike in the material universe, all who truly believed had an equal claim to the next world.

It was an undeniable truth that the Prophets often saw fit to emphasize. Freedom beget individuality and while free will could lead an individual to do great things, it could also lead to dangerous, unwholesome ones. The middle ground they sought was individuality as part of a greater whole, with personal distinguishment being earned only through devotion to the greater good. Any thought or action outside this definition was seen as an unwelcome distraction at best and heresy at worst. Luckily, those who _did _fall outside were a minority.

Walking down the hallway that led to the battlecruiser's control room, the golden armored sangheili, Ship Master Udo 'Tikawomee felt safe in the knowledge that he fell into the majority, knowing that his mind, body and spirit were dedicated to the betterment of Covenant society. As long as he adhered to the path of his forebears, retained spiritual purity and killed any infidel whose stench saturated the stars, his role in the Covenant and place in the future Great Journey were guaranteed.

All of it true. All of it undeniable. All of it part of a mental stream that 'Tikawomee kept running through his mind in order to remind himself of his stability in the greater scheme of things. After all, being summoned by a Prophet, a leader of the Covenant, was either a blessing or a curse, and having indeed been summoned by said individual, 'Tikawomee could not help but suspect that it was the latter. He'd performed within his ordained role over the last few cycles, true, but certainly nothing to be worthy of a blessing per se.

But even so, what could he have done, or not done, that would involve a curse?

_I suppose the truth awaits me, _the Ship Master thought to himself as he approached the door leading to the control room. With a hiss it opened, what dim light illuminated the centre of the ship reflecting off his golden armor. As 'Tikawomee expected, it was completely abandoned, devoid of life. Well, almost. This was to be a personal audience, one featuring himself and his superior…the Prophet of Devotion.

If the Prophet heard 'Tikawomee enter, he gave no immediate sign. He simply sat there on his gravity throne with his back to the lowly creature that had entered his presence. Although theoretically equals with the sangheili, the san 'shyuum held political power, ranging from the lowliest minister to the triumvirate of Truth, Mercy and Regret. This had the advantage in that it allowed the sangheili to focus on martial prowess; the hand of the Covenant with the Prophets being the arm. Both were significant in the grand scheme of the universe, subservient only to the gods themselves. But even so, Devotion's political power was making 'Tikawomee feel very insignificant indeed.

"Come," said the Prophet eventually, the Ship Master obeying without question. He walked up to the dais upon which the control panels were situated, kneeling down in front of his superior.

"I am here," said 'Tikawomee simply. Silence followed, silence which the sangheili interpreted as permission to proceed. Slowly and deliberately, he began to speak;

"_So full of hate were our eyes that none of us could see._  
_Our war would yield countless dead, but never victory."_

The Writ of Union…an oath of service to the Covenant. An oath which bound both sangheili and san 'shyuum to their cause. As such, the Prophet swiveled around and responded in kind;

"_So let us cast arms aside, and like discard our wrath._  
_Thou, in faith, will keep us safe, whilst we find the path."_

To an outsider, one who embraced ignorance either willingly or unwillingly, the scene could be seen as…strange, if only for the disparity between the two species. 'Tikawomee…a grey skinned creature of muscle and power, golden armored, eight and a half feet tall at full height. In contrast was Devotion; a feeble, olive skinned being seated on a floating chair, seemingly incapable of movement. While his ceremonial maroon robes and elegant circlet conveyed a certain nobility, there was still a feeling of…disparity between the two. As if the situation had been reversed from what should have been…

Clearly Devotion didn't think so. "Rise," he said simply. As with the Prophet's previous order, 'Tikawomee obeyed swiftly and silently.

"Do you know why you are here, Ship Master?" Devotion asked smoothly, calmly flexing his two fingered, one thumbed hand.

"I am here because you called me to your side," answered 'Tikawomee.

"Incorrect."

The sangheili's four mandibles tightened. "Pardon?"

"I said that you are incorrect," repeated Devotion. "That is not why you are here. That I called you is _how_ you came to be here most certainly, along with _when _you came to be here, but that is not _why _you are here." The Prophet leaned forward. "So, can you, or can you not answer my question? _Why_, are you here?"

'Tikawomee's head lowered, facing the floor beneath the Prophet's chair. "No," he said, a hint of shame in his voice. "I do not know why I am here."

Devotion leaned back, seemingly satisfied with the answer. "Good. You are at least honest." He gave a small smirk. "You may raise your gaze by the way."

'Tikawomee obeyed, but seemed reluctant to do so. Still, he managed in the end, regaining his line of sight as well as the right to speak.

"Tell me then, o' Prophet, why am I here?" the ship master asked. The san'shyuum remained silent for a few moments before answering however.

"You are here…" the Prophet said slowly, "because your recent actions, or rather, the lack of them, prompt explanation.

'Tikawomee was caught off guard. "Pardon?"

Sighing, Devotion pressed a button on his throne, a hologram of the system they were passing through appearing above them. The location of the _Divine Crusader _was clearly marked, along with the system's seven planets and single star.

"This," said Devotion, gesturing at the system's fourth planet and also its smallest, "is our object of interest." He leaned forward once again, this time akin to a hungry kig-yar facing a wounded unggoy. "Can you tell me _why_, ship master?"

'Tikawomee could indeed tell his superior why, but was reluctant to do so. He could see where this was going…

"The Prophets are known for their patience, sangheili, but there _are _exceptions." Devotion's tone had a considerable dose of venom to it. "In the here and now, you may consider me such an exception."

'Tikawomee considered him as such. "The planet is of interest," he said as diplomatically as he could, "because there are four human ships above it."

"And? Why do you suppose they are there?"

'Tikawomee clicked his mandibles. "They are there…because there is a human settlement on the planet."

"Then why are we continuing on our present course!" Devotion thundered, sounding like one of the gods that the Covenant worshipped. "The barbarous wretches are right under our noses and we're passing on as if we are immune to their stench! Why have we not changed course to purify this system with our holy fire!"

'Tikawomee shifted one of his hoofed feet uneasily. "My lord, surely you understand that while said wretches deserve holy fire rained down upon them, we possess not the means to carry out such a thing."

"Indeed?" asked Devotion, as if addressing a child. A particularly stupid one. 'Tikawomee lowered his gaze. Again.

"Yes. You must understand, holy Prophet, that while the vermin's technology is inferior, they still outnumber us two to one. A ratio that could still work to our advantage, but in light of …"

"Don't try to hide your cowardice!" shouted Devotion. "The heathens, no matter how numerous, cannot stand up against the might of the Covenant! Are we not blessed with the spirit of the Forerunners? Do we not have a divine mission, an _oath _to fulfill?"

'Tikawomee's gaze lowered even further. "We do, my lord. And that is why I thought it best that we continue our search for Forerunner artifacts and let the Fleet of Purity combine surprise with force that we cannot provide."

Devotion raised an eyebrow. "Fleet of Purity?"

'Tikawomee nodded. "I sent a message to the fleet when we detected the human presence. As a combat group, it has the right to carry out judgment and the means to do so."

"While you stand by, doing…what?" the san 'shyuum sneered. "Was I mistaken in thinking that your kind are warriors? Or are you just a shameful exception?"

Silence still gripped the ship master. He knew that his superior was appealing to the ambition inherent in every sangheili-to die a glorious death in battle and to devote themselves to the Great Journey. Indeed, 'Tikawomee longed for the chance to take a ship into battle but knew that day would probably never come. Instead, he'd been tasked with a fruitless search to find the artifacts left by their gods. The chance of actual combat gnawed away at him.

Still, he had the lives of his own warriors at stake. They would no doubt relish the chance of going into battle against the humans but even they could appreciate the difference between honorable death and suicide. Devotion's role was really due to that of being an emissary from the High Prophets and technically had no command over him. This was _his_ ship, _his _forces, and both were _his _to command. But if word of disobedience made its way back to High Charity…

"Rescind the order," said Devotion.

'Tikawomee blinked. "What?"

"You heard me correctly, ship master," Devotion hissed. "Rescind your order. Recall the fleet."

"My lord…" said 'Tikawomee slowly. "May I point out that our ordained task is to search for legacies of the gods, _not _to undertake pointless battles?"

"Of course," the Prophet said, handing 'Tikawomee a data slate. "Which is why the planet concerns us."

'Tikawomee read the data slate, his eyes growing wide as he did so. "Are these readings accurate?" he asked eventually.

"Of course they are," said Devotion simply. "But that is beside the point. What _is _the point, is that these readings energy readings prompt investigation, no?"

"Indeed," said the sangheili, his heart racing at such a discovery (even with humans faking detection, luminaries never lied). "However, I believe that we should wait for support nonetheless."

"Come now," said Devotion, sounding calm, yet with an edge of menace to his voice. "Surely you believe in the Covenant, not to mention yourself? The spirit of the Forerunners shall protect us from whatever the infidels throw at us."

"I still think-…"

"Your thoughts are of no concern to me!" shouted Devotion, becoming rage personified. "I care not for whatever goes through your head unless it's dangerous thought that goes against what the Covenant stands for! And at this point in time, that seems to be the case! Unless you want me to file a report to the High Prophets concerning your insubordination and as a result have your corpse paraded throughout High Charity I suggest that you fulfill your duty to the Covenant and obey my orders!"

If looks could kill, 'Tikawomee would have been dead before he hit the ground. Luckily, that wasn't the case. However, Devotion's glare still had the desired effect.

"I concede to your decision," the sangheili murmured.

"Good." Devotion clasped his hands. "I'm glad that we've reached an understanding. To demonstrate this, you may rescind your order and prepare for battle."

And with that, he floated out.

'Tikawomee cursed under his breath as the door sealed shut, not knowing nor caring whether Devotion heard him. It was obvious what the Prophet's motives were; he wanted to secure the artifact himself single-handedly, even at the cost of his soldiers' lives. Granted, he had a point in that it fell under their jurisdiction, but even so, that did not mean having to exclude others who could aid them.

Yet there were things that didn't add up. 'Tikawomee had detected the human presence himself, yet had not informed Devotion directly. And how was the Prophet able to obtain readings before he did? The Prophets were entitled to knowledge that sangheili did not, but even so…

_But what can I do? _the ship master asked himself, not receiving an answer. Quite simply, there was very little he _could _do. Disobeying a Prophet's orders is these circumstances was little better than heresy. Yet if he did so, he would risk everything. Sighing, he made his way over to the bridge's main console, the device which, among other things, could send a message to the Fleet of Purity, namely one to withdraw his request.

Or not…

Instinct and loyalty clashed within him. He knew that he would have only a limited amount of time before Devotion returned to check his status. Whatever his choice was, he didn't have long to follow it. He stood there, unmoving. What would he do? What _could_ he do? Eventually, he made his choice.

"Gods forgive me," the ship master murmured as he started typing.

* * *

**Chi Mu System, Settlement 01 ("Thunderville")**

**Planet Hope**

Thunderville was a dump.

Nineteen years of living on Hope had yet to change Ardo's assertion and despite having just had one of the worst, if not _the _worst nights of his life, his view had yet to change. Looking back at it, he was surprised that it hadn't been his last. Robbed of transportation, he and Tara had been forced to rely on what little shelter the cliff had provided against one of Hope's frequent storms that had struck after the…thing was raised. Finally, at around 3am, the storm abated, neither of them having obtained a wink of sleep. With that, they had begun a seven mile trudge to the planet's only settlement…

Thunderville.

Thunderville had originally been designated as Settlement 01 upon Hope's colonization, the notion being that it would be the first of many. Expansion would follow suit, naming coming after. That had never transpired however, the planet proving more inhospitable than first anticipated. In the wake of the disappointment, the town had never been officially named. "Thunderville" however, became the unofficial one, a reflection of the near constant sound in the skies above it. Names aside though, it was, as Ardo's assertion maintained, a dump, possessing squat, grey buildings, less than a mile squared in area. To top it off, it was surrounded by a trench, courtesy of the marines that had been stationed (or "dumped" as some maintained) on the world for the last three years. It was the only dip in a flat plain that stretched for miles, the only exception being a small rise to the town's north that led to the valley where mining was carried out.

"We're here," Ardo murmured as he and Tara passed the perimeter, ignoring the inquisitive stares of the guards stationed there. Tara, who had been resting on her brother's shoulder for the last few hours. "You took your time," she murmured, her eyes barely open.

"Well _pardon me_. It's not easy to trudge across a dirt plain with you constantly leaning on my shoulder."

Under normal circumstances, Ardo would have expected a semi-witty response from his sister. However, she was far too tired for her usual rhetoric. They trudged through the narrow streets, heading for the single storied house (like virtually all of the town's buildings) that they shared, located mercifully close to the town's perimeter. Upon arrival, Tara walked up to the door, while Ardo remained outside.

"Aren't you coming in?" she asked, seeing that her brother had pulled out one of his near infinite cigarettes.

"Nah, I better report to Riley," her brother answered, smoke coming out of his nostrils that aptly reflected his disgust at his superior. The white haired man oversaw Hope's mining operations and it therefore fell to Ardo to explain why there was one less mining truck at his disposal.

Farewells given, Ardo set down the road. His stomach was turning, yet the fact that we was going to have his arse handed to him was only part of it. What struck him was how…normal everything seemed, ranging from the setting to those in it. Hadn't anyone seen the beam of light go up into the sky? Shouldn't paranoia be gripping everyone by now?

Well that was fine by him. If no-one saw the temple it was best to forget about it. Tara wasn't the assertive type, so she'd probably keep quiet. All that mattered now was seeing Riley and getting to sleep for a week. Best to forget about the whole thing…

Fate seemed intent on prolonging his agony however. Thunderville was basically separate into two halves, separated by a single square in the centre that one had to travel through to travel from one half to the other without walking around. Unfortunately, the square was currently occupied, marines keeping civilians at bay while four dropships touched down, each carrying a chaingun armed jeep, all of which were to be driven by the twelve black armored soldiers that were deploying in tandem with the vehicles.

Ardo was no particular military techie, but having spent his life around machinery and three years of said life among the military, he'd picked up a few things. He recognized the now ascending dropships as D77H-TCI Pelicans, the UNSC's primary craft for personnel and equipment transport just as readily as he recognized the jeeps as being M41 light anti-aircraft gun armed M12 LRVs often referred to as Warthogs due to the tusk-like tow bars. It was sad really, how he'd found the time to memorize these things.

The soldiers were a mystery however, just as much as the strange weapons they were carrying. They looked like giant black metal rectangular…things, almost fitting of their black body suits and visored helmets, completely obscuring their facial features. Within less of a minute of deployment, the Pelicans had departed and the troops had roared off in the Warthogs, almost as if they had never existed.

"Strange times, eh pal?"

Ardo turned to the source, a look of surprise turning into a small smile.

"Don't you have work to do Alan?"

"Don't you?"

It was a regular banter between Ardo and the Marine he was talking to, namely to Engineer Alan Ellison of the 31st Marine Division, five companies of which had been dumped on Hope three years ago, as if rebuilding the unit after the Harvest Campaign was too much trouble and forgetting they existed was the easier solution. Neither Hope's people nor the soldiers were particularly happy about the arrangement-you were throwing people who'd gone through hell for five years fighting aliens with people who'd never seen an alien in their life. Still, Ardo and Alan, or A'n'A as they were sometimes known, managed to get on well, if only for shared interests and common vices.

"So what the hell happened to you?" Ellison asked, taking off his helmet and igniting the tip of a cigarette with a laser lighter, Ardo doing the same.

"Pardon?"

"Come on man, you look like shit," the engineer grinned, his smoke joining Ardo's. "Stay up late or something?"

Ardo simply shrugged, hoping to avoid the question. He knew exactly why he felt and probably looked like "shit", but wasn't in the mood to talk about it. Ellison had never struck Ardo as an assertive individual (not unlike Tara, come to think of it). With dark hair, pale skin that served as a reminder of what low light conditions did to you and a general resemblance to a puppy that'd been kicked too many times, Ardo didn't feel at risk of having his little escapade be leaked. Still…

"So who were those guys touching down?" Ardo asked, hoping to change the subject.

Ellison shrugged. "Some gooks from up above," he said, gesturing upwards with a finger usually reserved for insults. "Hell if I know what for."

Ardo knew what for, or at least suspected it. The light beam may not have been seen from the town, but it could easily have been detected from up above, not to mention that pod coming down. But even so, why take Warthogs to the site of the landing? Why not simply land the Pelicans by the artifact?

Whatever. It had nothing to do with him.

"Anyway, I better go," Ellison said, looking at his watch and stamping out his death stick. "Goliath beckons."

"And you're just the David to do it huh?" Ardo asked.

"Bite me."

"Whatever. Gotta see Riley anyway."

With that the two headed off, Ardo to the other side of town, Ellison to…well, Ardo didn't know exactly where he went. They were friends, true, but that didn't give Ellison the right to break confidentiality. Meh. If it was to do with the military, it had nothing to do with him. All that mattered to Ardo right now was seeing Riley, making up some cover story that wouldn't link him to the relic that was inevitably going to be found and then catch some R&R. Let the brass do what they wanted. Their battles were their own.

Not his.

* * *

Pain.

It coursed through him. Pain. Every movement, every breath, brought the sensation.

Opening his eyes brought agony. Climbing out of the drop pod was a reflection of fate's sadism. Actually standing was…well, there was no word he could think of to describe it, so focused on dealing with that which crippled his armored body. No matter, he had something that could help him through it…

Vengeance.

* * *

_A/N_

_This could be the last chapter for awhile, but this is unlikely to be the case. I'll be in New Zealand from the 24th to mid-January, which will hinder time for writing. However, it shouldn't hinder my ability to post the remaining chapters on a continued weekly basis. Responding to reviews could be another thing, but I should be able to get to it eventually._

_A fair question would be as to why I didn't wait until mid-Jan to begin posting. In all honesty, I considered it a calculated risk worth taking and the notion of beginning to post in 2011 for a fic that began in 2006...hopefully I'm less of an arrogant arse than I was in the previous decade, but it's still something of a personal triumph to actually begin the third incarnation of this fic in '10 rather than '11, if that makes sense. Anyway, just a heads up._

_In regards to some issues brought up in reviews, rest assured that MJOLNIR Mk. V _is _a typo rather than me expressing outright ignorance of canon (doesn't come into play till 2552, despite what _Halo Wars _might imply...)__ Also touched on was the origins of this fic conceptually. It's better explained in my profile, but the initial conception of this fic, before I started planning them out beforehand (indeed, it was this fic back in '06 that made me start such a practice) was a mix of the _StarCraft _novel _Shadow of the Xel'naga, Metal Gear Solid _and actually a short sci-fi story I read in primary school. Can't remember the book or author, but in a collection of short sci-fi stories definately aimed at children, it was by far the most mature. It featured a planet called Hope and as short as it was, it was a very effective and effectively moving portrayal of the nature of human perception, how people refuse to see and accept what's in front of them if they don't like it. There's little this story shares in common with that story bar the planet's name and nature, but it provided some, if not most of the inspiration for this. All of the afformiated aspects have been watered down in this version, so that I can call this story relatively original, but it seemed best to explain the origins in context._

_So yeah. Merry Christmas, hopefully ch. 3 might find its way under your tree...if your Internet connection passes by it. 0_0_

_(2011-08-05)_

_As far as I can tell, whether there's a gap between ellipsis and the following letter is acceptable both ways, depending on which style (Chicago Manual of Style, Associated Press, etc.). Also, there aren't many double-hyphenated words that I know of, and the LAAG is no exception. Fixed other errors._


	3. Storm of Chaos

.

**Halo: Shadows of Hope**

**Chapter 3: Storm of Chaos**

_**Phoenix**_**-class colony ship **_**Haven**_

**Geo-stationary orbit around Planet Hope**

Captain Justin Sattler had a dislike of the unknown.

For some, this may have seemed odd. A navy, although sailing the currents of slipspace rather than Earth's oceans, was still a navy and had ships. Ships captained by individuals who, theoretically at least, harkened back to the explorers of old, of individuals who left the safety of their homelands to explore the seas of their homeworld and confront the unknown for reasons ranging from scientific discovery to conquest. Although times had changed, for a ship commander to dislike the unknown…well, it seemed _wrong_ somehow.

If someone had confronted Sattler over the issue, he would have explained that it was not so much the unknown that he found disconcerting, but rather what the unknown was associated with. Understandable, considering that the word "unknown" was often associated with a collection of xenocidal bastards known as the Covenant. Their ultimate motives were unknown. The location of their homeworld was unknown. The extent of their manpower (or _alien_power as some called it) was unknown. They'd appeared out of the unknown. Their…well, anyone could see a pattern developing here. Suffice to say, the unknown had lost its appeal.

So therefore, the black haired, dark skinned man with grey eyes that missed no detail, had disliked the fact that what had occurred on the _Aeros_ yesterday was unknown to him. Despite being in command of a battlegroup consisting of three ships including his own that were supposedly situated above the dustball below to protect it, the ONI spooks treated him like…well, like they treated everyone outside their organization. If he was on the station itself he may have been able to make them see things differently but as that wasn't the case, he had to rely on more subtle means to out what had descended to the planet's surface. Something that apparently didn't concern him and would be handled by the _Aeros'_s own people.

Basically, something that he _should _be involved in, but wasn't. At least not directly…

To this end, Sattler pressed a button of the holotank by his desk. Less than a second later, an image of a man who looked like something out of Greek mythology appeared, sky blue light illuminating the captain's sparsely lit quarters.

"Yes, what is it?" the figure asked irritably.

Sattler smiled faintly, going over documents that constantly tempted him to open an airlock and dump them out into space. "Nice to see you too," the man murmured.

"Get to the point flyboy."

If it had been a crewman speaking to Sattler, he would have probably disciplined said individual on the spot there and then, if only for the mediocre satisfaction that one receives from flaunting their authority. Ulysses however, was not a crewman and wouldn't be until artificial intelligence was classified as such, if at all. Regardless, while such constructs had a range of functions, Ulysses had been created for the sole purpose of navigation. A 'dumb' AI as the case was, meaning that he excelled in only one particular field.

Which made his current endeavor seemingly doomed to failure…

"Any luck yet?" Sattler asked, spinning around on his chair to face the AI's avatar; that of a bearded man with a headband around messy hair.

Ulysses sighed. "Captain, is there something wrong with your memory?"

"Perhaps," grinned the fleetman, reflecting that three years of being stationed above a single planet could probably lead to memory loss. "Why?"

"Because you asked me that same question three-hundred and three seconds ago," the AI growled, turning a darker shade of blue. "So pray tell me, what do you think could have possibly changed in _five minutes!"_

Sattler suspected that the AI was faking this. For a being who measured time in nanoseconds, being asked the same question every five minutes probably wasn't that bad. Still, AIs often developed personalities that reflected both their nature and appearance. As far as Sattler could tell, Ulysses copied Homer's creation perfectly; an arrogant twat who liked to boast of every single deed that he'd done.

There were only so many times you could listen to an AI fighting off Scylla and Charybdis…

"Just answer the question," the captain murmured, turning back to the documents. It was a yearly record that had to be completed of all fleet actions, or rather, the lack of them. Sattler wanted to complete them early so he could get drunk in time for New Year's Day.

"As you're no doubt aware, the answer is no," said Ulysses, his artificial voice embedded with genuine arrogance. "I was designed as an AI to help with navigation, not for hacking computer systems."

"But there's a chance, right?" Sattler asked, sounding more hopeful than he intended.

Ulysses shrugged. "Yes, I guess. If you take a one point six percent likelihood of success a chance that is."

Sattler fell silent, concentrating on ordinance maintenance records with more brooding concentration than he thought possible. He knew the chances of Ulysses succeeding in hacking into the _Aeros'_s computer systems were low, but _that _much? He couldn't help but feel disappointed.

"Anyway, even if I could succeed, then what?" Ulysses asked, seemingly sensing his superior's despondence. "What I'm doing comes under the classification of unsanctioned espionage, punishable under the terms of Article C34-5-…"

"Ulysses, you know as well as I do that something is rotten in the state of Denmark!" Sattler exclaimed.

Ulysses blinked. "Sir, I'm not a Shakespearean AI…"

"That's not the point," Sattler grunted, giving up pondering over checklists of Archer missile payloads and instead focusing on the piece of coding beside him.

"You were aware of it before any of us," said Sattler slowly. A single HEV was dispatched from the _Aeros_ this morning, making landfall approximately seven miles north of Settlement Zero-one. The spooks are refusing to comment on what happened and have sent their own people to retrieve it."

"Your point?" asked Ulysses, his processing power going down a few kilobytes due to boredom.

"My point…" said Sattler, leaning forward. "Is that they're keeping me out of the loop when they damn well shouldn't be!"

If he was physically able to, Ulysses would have recoiled. Not out of fear, an emotion that a dumb AI was only capable of experiencing in rare circumstances (if any), but to make the point that Sattler might be losing it. Truth be told, Ulysses wouldn't have been that surprised if that was the case; insanity was seemingly part of the price that one paid for organic sapience and besides, Sattler had been complaining about the posting non-stop, ever since he and two other ships were transferred to Hope and designated Battlegroup FOX, stripped of their former _Rapier _designation. Sattler had always wondered what prompted the name change, never getting an answer, for reasons equally unknown.

The first step on the road to madness perhaps? No matter. Ulysses had received an interesting tidbit of information in the last 0.37 seconds that could change that…

"Sir, I will continue to scan the _Aeros' _databanks for any useful information," said Ulysses formally, dredging up his formality protocols from the depths of his Riemann processing matrix. "However, I think there's something else that you should look at first."

Sattler snorted. "What, something interesting happened on the surface for the first and only time?"

"No sir, it's above it actually," said the AI quietly, his form dissipating from the holotank, being replaced by a hologram of Hope and its surrounding area.

At first, Sattler saw nothing out of the ordinary, the image of the ships above Hope having remained the same over the last three. The _Aeros _was the most noticeable, given its size, with the _Haven _quickly catching Sattler's eye-something akin to a father-son mentality. However, while he also spared a glance at the two frigates _Charon _and _Unity_, they barely registered in his mind. What truly caught his eye was a slipspace rupture directly off their battlefront. A rupture that corresponded to a large capital ship…a Covenant _CCS_-class battlecruiser to be exact. One which was heading straight for them.

"Shit," murmured Sattler.

"Excellent summary sir," said Ulysses dutifully. "Orders?"

It took Sattler a few seconds to fully register Ulysses' query, courtesy of two conflicting emotions coursing through him. On one hand, there was trepidation-this was a Covenant ship, a vessel that was advanced, powerful and deadly. On the other hand, he was experiencing an emotion that the last three years had been devoid of…excitement.

"Send out an alert to the ships," Sattler murmured eventually. "If those alien scum want a fight, they'll get one.

"Will do sir," Ulysses answered. "The Covenant won't be finding our Achilles Heel anytime soon." With that, he disappeared, klaxons blaring throughout the ship a second later as Paris prepared to fire his arrow at something that hopefully wasn't invulnerable for the most part. Sattler meanwhile started heading out of the room for the bridge, not intent on being found wanting. As he reached the door however, he stopped and gave a quick glance at the hologram. Tags were appearing on all of FOX's ships, indicating that they'd received Ulysses' message. Simultaneously, the Covenant cruiser was…heading straight for them.

Something was wrong and Sattler knew it. Covenant ships were far better armed and armored than their human counterparts, common theory holding that it would require a 3:1 superiority to defeat a Covenant fleet. Granted, there were a few problems with the theory here. It was a single alien ship rather than a fleet for starters, if you wanted to be pedantic, not to mention that a cruiser was well above a frigate's tonnage. Still, the _Haven _was the largest ship in the system right now, which would theoretically bring the ratio back into place. Yet right now the cruiser was on an intercept course like a rabid dog or a charging knight, depending on whether one considered the aliens piloting it to be brave or suicidal.

_Or I've missed something…_

Sattler shrugged. He'd find out soon enough.

* * *

_**CCS**_**-class battlecruiser **_**Divine Crusader**_

**Status: Engaging human fleet**

Pride was something that came before glory or a fall and standing on the bridge of his ship, 'Tikawomee was acutely aware of it. His fellow sangheili around him and a Prophet beside him, the ship master was placing hope in the possibility that it would be the former and not the latter alternative that, given his situation, would work literally. Still, he would find out soon enough. The human ships had presumably detected their entry and were already in what he supposed was a battle formation.

"Look at them," Devotion sneered, a tactical map displayed in front of him. "Standing before us, as if thinking they can alter the currents of fate." He fell silent, noticing 'Tikawomee's uneasy expression.

"Something bothering you Shipmaster?" asked the Prophet slowly.

'Tikawomee decided to embrace the virtue of honesty. "You could say that," he murmured, continuing to stare at the view screen. "After all, the prospect of being outnumbered three to one is hardly appealing when we are indeed but one ship."

The Prophet snorted. "So they make an island of dung to stand against us?" He slapped the sangheili's arm, not tall enough to reach the creature's shoulder. "Fear not ship master. Land will give way to water eventually."

'Tikawomee simply nodded, remaining silent. Perhaps because of this, or simply just seeking to assert his authority as the ship's dogmatic yardstick, Devotion reached for the intercom. 'Tikawomee sighed mentally. _Here we go, _he thought.

"Fellow warriors!" Devotion thundered. "Within moments we will be upon the wretched creatures that stand before us, those who would burn their own world rather than bequeath the relics that our gods left behind for us to find. I ask you, not as a leader, but as a fellow soldier (_he considers himself a soldier? _'Tikawomee wondered), to honor those before us. Maintain the glory and power of the Covenant. Let none stand in the way of the Great Journey!"

Cheers echoed throughout the bridge, a sound that was no doubt mirrored throughout the rest of the bridge. 'Tikawomee turned to the Prophet.

"Eloquently delivered milord," said the sangheili diplomatically. "Speeches aside however, may I actually get round to conducting this battle?"

"Yes, of course," answered Devotion, his voice indicating that he may have shouted too much for his own good. "Cleanse the infidels with plasma and free the stars from their taint."

'Tikawomee gave a small nod and turned back to the view-screen, the human fleet maintaining its position near some kind of space station. "Have no fear holy one," he said softly. "The system shall be cleansed of the heathens."

_Providing that they don't cleanse us first…_

* * *

**Office of Mining Operations, Settlement 01 ("Thunderville")**

**Planet Hope**

There was apparently some book written thousands of years ago back on Earth that, among other things, decreed that one should not lie. Right now however, standing in front of his employer, Ardo felt inclined to tell the writer of that book to go rot in hell and face reality. After all, if he'd followed said edict and not lied, then he'd either be accused of doing that which must not be done or be in even deeper shit.

A small consolation as the case was.

"Turner, do you take me for an idiot?" Riley asked, the grey haired, blue eyed man asked, his skin stretching as he leant back in his chair. Ardo raised an eyebrow. He'd never thought it possible for Riley to look uglier than the standard set years ago, but now he'd-…

"Turner!"

"Er, no sir," Ardo lied. "Not at all sir."

Riley snorted, leaning back forward. "Turner, lying isn't one of your strong points."

"Sir, I think you're being a bit…"

"A bit what?" Riley snarled. "A bit overly dubious concerning the validity account that the mountain path collapsed as you were rolling along in the rock harvester, and despite your best efforts, it fell into the canyon?"

"Yep, that's it."

Riley leaned back, putting his boots on the table that Ardo suspected was not paid for in cash that came only from legitimate sources. Reaching for a drawer of said desk, the old geyser drew out a Sweet Williams Cigar and laser lighter, combining the effects of both.

_Bastard, _Ardo thought bitterly. _"He gets the good stuff while I'm stuck with these sodding cancer sticks. What kind of-…_

"You know what Turner?" Riley asked suddenly, smoke blowing out his nostrils like a peeved dragon from one of Earth's many mythologies "I'm not going to fire you."

"Oh thank God! For a moment there I-…"

"Instead I'm docking seventy five percent of your weekly pay until the debt is paid."

"WHAT!"

The grin on the face of Ardo's boss was about as cheesy as camembert and smelt just as bad as well. "Come on Ardo, think about it. Accident or not, a harvester has still been destroyed. And as you were the one who was driving it-…"

"Hey, Tara was in there as well!" Ardo protested, still unable to fully comprehend the situation.

"Was she indeed?" Riley asked, his smile turning into something that resembled something less cheesy and something more lecherous. "Well, no doubt that she'll be able to help repay the debt in ways other than-…"

"I _think _that I'll keep to the standard fashion," Ardo quickly interrupted. "Good day sir."

And with that he walked out, mind roaring, ears burning and his fists flexing. Seventy-five percent…not that there was really much need for money on Hope, but without a greater amount on his paycheck, that was going to equal a lot less nicotine, alcohol and the amount he could wager in the seemingly eternal poker games in the settlement. What could this possibly amount to, if anything?

_There is another option of course, _came a voice at the back of the miner's head. _You could mention the light…_

Right now, it seemed a bit academic. Any return to the office and accompanying excuses would be given far less credibility than his first account, provided that he'd actually been given any credibility at all. And while those black armored soldiers would be able to verify his story if they'd indeed been looking for the object's landing site, such verification would involve the knowledge that he was actually there. And with tall, dark and ugly rising from flat, dark and ugly, Ardo knew what _that _would lead to…

_May as well just ride it out I guess, _thought miner bitterly. _It's not as if things could get any worse…_

* * *

_**Phoenix**_**-class colony ship **_**Haven**_

**Status: Engaged with Covenant **_**CCS**_**-class battlecruiser**

"Ulysses, what in the name of Bloody Elisa just happened!"

Under normal circumstances, Ulysses may have pointed out to the captain that using the patron saint of vacuum's name in vain could wind up with him in her arms and that it was a case of what had _not _happened, rather than what had. What had not happened, contrary to all hopes and expectations, was that a salvo of three 600-ton ferric-tungsten projectiles with depleted uranium cores moving at 30,000 kilometers per second would slam into a Covenant battlecruiser bearing down on them. Instead, only two had been fire and those two had done jack.

"Analysis of our ship's MAC indicates flaws in the tungsten steel coils," said Ulysses calmly, his voice drastically out of place in the general feeling prevalent on the bridge. "I think this has been the case for at least three years."

"Three years!" Sattler exclaimed. "How the hell did we miss a flaw like that for…oh shit…"

Right now, the captain didn't care about the Haven's magnetic accelerator cannon, as pressing as an issue as it was. All he cared about was that the Covenant battlecruiser had unleashed a volley of plasma torpedoes. Plasma torpedoes that were heading towards his two frigates that he'd sent ahead of the _Haven_ under the assumption that the colony ship's MAC, when combined with their own, would make such hounding tactics viable-either they pummeled the battlecruiser with Archer missiles or, if the shields were still up, broke off. However, with the battlecruiser completely unfazed by the opening volley, it was able to use far more firepower than Sattler had anticipated. So much fire, that in two explosions of superheated gas, _Charon _ended up on the wrong side of the River Styx and _Unity_'s structure became far less unified.

Outnumbered three to one…and now the Covenant had evened those odds in a matter of minutes…

"Sir, your orders?" Ulysses asked.

…

"Sir, _orders_?" the AI asked, this time more forcefully. "Are you going to issue them?"

…

"Sir! Are you going to-…"

"Yes Ulysses, I am," said Sattler suddenly, turning to face the AI as his mind finished formulating a desperate plan. "I'm going to issue orders on how we're going to send these alien bastards back to whatever shade of hell spawned them.

* * *

**CCS-class Battlecruiser **_**Divine Crusader**_

**Status: Engaging human fleet**

"Look at them! Already the vermin retreat before our might."

As much as 'Tikawomee hated to admit it, he had to agree with the Prophet's assumption. One volley from the humans that was completely ineffective, a return volley of their own which destroyed two enemy ships and as a result, the remaining human warship was disengaging from the system. Perhaps Devotion was correct after all. Perhaps they _were _invincible…

"What are you waiting for ship master! After them!"

Or not…

"Something's wrong…" 'Tikawomee murmured, studying a holographic map of the battlefront. "This doesn't look like standard disengagement…"

"What?" Devotion asked skeptically, raising an eyebrow.

"Look here," said 'Tikawomee, gesturing at the diagram. "The capital ship...it's looping around the planet."

"So? They probably want to slingshot around the planet to gain extra momentum."

"Perhaps," 'Tikawomee murmured. "But this isn't a standard disengagement maneuver. Their FTL technology should allow them to simply flee and use it as soon as they have enough power to. What's to be gained by extra velocity in real space when they could enter the slipstream in the same amount of time? It's as if…as if…"

"It means nothing!" Devotion thundered, interrupting the sangheili's train of thought. "I'm not interested in human retreat maneuvers! All I'm interested in is how many you can kill before they flee the system!"

'Tikawomee sighed, seeing that any attempt to make Devotion see the virtue of caution was a lost cause. With much regret, he ordered the ship to close in on the immobile space station. They could finish it off at close quarters with minimal effort and then head planetside. The capital ship would escape before they could do any lasting damage. It was no longer an issue.

At least he wasn't until he heard and felt the first impacts on the ship's hull.

* * *

_**Phoenix**_**-class colony ship **_**Haven**_

**Status: Engaged with **_**CCS**_**-class battlecruiser**

Ulysses was impressed.

It was a risk really, to undergo a non-standard 'disengagement'. The Covenant may have been brutal, but it certainly wasn't stupid. There was a strong chance that they would have seen through Sattler's bluff and turned around to meet him on Hope's night side. And even if they didn't, there was still the risk of them using their energy projector to destroy the _Aeros _from range rather than taking the time to close the distance. Still, despite the risk, it had paid off. As smart as they were, the aliens humanity faced were like rabid dogs, going out of their way to kill as many humans as possible. So if there was a fat, defenseless target like the _Aeros _presenting itself, chances were they'd go to deal with it in the absence of any other ships that could be targeted.

Which it had. And now, with the _Haven_'s orbit of Hope complete and already alongside the battlecruiser, they were about to pay the price.

"Alright, we're at the target," said Sattler over the intercom. "Give 'em hell."

Instead of fire and brimstone, "hell" consisted of an opening salvo of over twenty-two deck guns firing at a target only a few hundred kilometers away-essentially point blank range at this point. And as strong as Covenant shields were, even _they _couldn't withstand such firepower. And while the _Haven _was receiving its own share of plasma and lasers, its superior tonnage was winning out in this case.

"Shields are down," declared Sattler, looking at the alien vessel's readout. "Release the Archers."

Once again, the close range worked to the _Haven_'s advantage. Covenant laser weaponry could protect their ships from such missiles usually, almost to the point where some in FLEETCOM were calling for such "redundant" weaponry to be phased out altogether. But at such close range, the lasers couldn't possibly get them all. And as well over ninety percent of the missiles hit their target, ripping numerous holes in the battlecruiser's hull, this was a fact that was joyfully apparent.

"Won't be long now," Sattler murmured to himself as much as Ulysses, watching the _CCS _buckle under the barrage.

"Won't be long for what?" the AI asked.

"Won't be long until Hope gets a fireworks display," the admiral murmured. "The clouds may hide most of it, but-…"

"Sir, Covenant ship disengaging!"

"What!"

No answer came his way, as it wasn't needed. The tactical display answered Sattler's question for him, along with raising others…like why the hell the battlecruiser was heading for the planet below rather than following what appeared to be standard Covenant protocol and be destroyed or self-destruct rather than be captured.

"Ulysses, what's the likely site of impact?" Sattler asked.

"Calculating sir," the AI murmured. A few seconds passed. "Sir, the ship…it's…aiming for the lands around Settlement Zero-one. Seven miles north to be exact."

Now things made even less sense. It was one thing to attempt to crash land on a planet- cowardice, hope or some other alien motive could explain that. But to aim for an enemy settlement? That didn't make human _or _alien sense.

_Unless they've got enough troops to overwhelm it, _thought the captain to himself, imagining a tide of aliens descending upon the settlement. _But what then? We still possess aerospace superiority. Or at least we do until…_

Sattler blinked. One ship attacking a fleet of human vessels? At first he'd assumed it was typical alien aggression, but what if this was something more? What if more Covenant ships were on their way? And what if, having landed on the surface, the battlecruiser had established itself in a prime location to disrupt terrestrial operations while a fleet of their allies wrecked havoc in the skies above?

"Patch me through to the _Aeros_," Sattler murmured to Ulysses.

"Will do sir."

With the AI giving orders and following pre-set protocols, the captain picked up a headset and walked out of the bridge. He had a headache coming on, and the sounds of crewman going about their business wasn't going to do him any favors. Finally, he patched through.

"Yes?" came a voice, one that Sattler recognized as belonging to Dr. Harwood. Or at least he supposed it belonged to her. Her tone sounded more…strained than from what he could recall. Meh. Maybe the lab monkeys had gone bananas or something.

"Ah, the good doctor," said the captain, deciding to take on a lighter tone before he took on a darker, more realistic one. "How's things?"

"I'm not a good doctor admiral. Get to the point."

Sattler raised an eyebrow. Since when did ONI arseheads get to the point of anything? Most of the time they avoided the point altogether, refused to even touch on the subject altogether or, on the rare occasion that they _did _get to the point, made it incomprehensible.

"The point eh?" Sattler asked. "My point, ma'am, is that we've had a Covenant battlecruiser attack us and-…"

"I'm aware of that captain. Nice job in downing the ship by the way, but so far, you've only stated the obvious."

Sattler raised an eyebrow. For someone who spent her time surrounded by computers 24/7, detached from reality's more brutal aspects (or reality itself considering the nature of the war against the Covenant), Harwood was dealing with reality quite well. Sattler's respect for the ONI arsehead went up a few notches…or at least would have done if not for the cloak and dagger ODST deployment this morning.

"Look ma'am, I'm only following protocol," the captain protested. "I don't like it, but ONI is in charge of all operations here." Sattler gave a mental blanch at the thought but managed to continue. "As such, I need to get your approval for planetary evacuation and reinforcements."

Harwood was silent for a few seconds. "Alright," she said. "I'll make a request for evac. The _Aeros _has far more efficient slipspace packages anyway. In the meantime, we-…"

"And reinforcements," Sattler interrupted. "Not just an evacuation. We need more ships and we need them now."

Harwood once again fell silent. "No," she said eventually. "No reinforcements."

"What! Are you insane? We're-…"

"Fighting a war for our very survival," Harwood interrupted. "Cole's fleet is the only thing keeping the Outer Colonies remotely safe and he's got better things to do than waste time on a single Covenant battlecruiser that can't even fight."

"Damnit Harwood, the Covenant knows we're here!" Sattler shouted, his headache worse and his stride having ground to a halt. "That battlecruiser's still active and is on the surface of a human world! It's only a matter of time before more alien bastards show up and we won't have the numbers to stop them!" He managed to compose himself slightly. "Besides," he added slyly. "A Covenant ship is down there, ready for the taking and…Harwood? Harwood!"

No answer. The good doctor had either signed off or wasn't listening.

"Damnit Harwood, answer me!" Sattler yelled, drawing the transceiver close. There's a Covenant ship down there that wants dealing with! First there's the ODST deployment, now this! What aren't you telling me! Harwood! Damnit you ONI arsehead, pick up the line!"

No answer.

"Harwood, pick up before I-…"

"Give it up sir."

Sattler recoiled, nearly falling over a hover dolly as a result. "Ulysses? Have you been listening in?"

"Only for the last few seconds," the AI chuckled. "Honestly sir, if Harwood had raised her voice too you'd have sounded like an old married couple."

Sattler suppressed a shudder at the thought. "Can you blame me Ulysses? We're in the dark and that blonde bitch isn't making things any easier."

"Well sir, chucking a spaz doesn't do a long distance relationship any-…"

"Don't jump to assumptions _Odysseus_," Sattler snarled. "I'm half tempted to…" he trailed off.

"Don't even think about it," said Ulysses. "If you want to think about something, you can think about this interesting discovery I made."

"Discovery?" asked Sattler. "What discovery?"

"A discovery in stellar phenomena," said Ulysses smugly. "I've sent it to your PDA. Check it"

Sattler did so…and smiled.

"Things might work after all," he murmured.

"Sir, I know what you're thinking," said Ulysses firmly, not liking where this was going and frustrated that Sattler couldn't share the wonder he felt (and perhaps more given the greater range of human emotions) at his discovery. "And staging a coup d'état isn't going to do any good."

"No, I'm not thinking that," lied Sattler, or at least lied in that he was fantasizing about such an act. "I'm actually thinking about how many coded slipspace packages we can send out without Harwood noticing. Any ideas?"

Ulysses sighed. "Sir, why do I have a bad feeling about this?"

"Because you hate cloak and dagger stuff," Sattler grunted. "And before you get any ideas, you piece of computer coding, let me tell you that I don't give a damn. Now answer my question before I…" He trailed off. How did one threaten an AI anyway?

Ulysses sighed. "Smooth, sir. _Real_ smooth."

"Arse."

It was a pithy comeback, but right now Justin Sattler didn't care. All he did care about was that there was a Covenant ship on the surface of a human world and as a result, there were only two outcomes. Either the aliens would arrive in force and do to Hope what they did to every other UEG world over the last nine years or that ship could be captured and turn the tide of this war. Either way, the captain would need more men to do it and if sending out encrypted (in case of alien discover) messages to any other UNSC ships that might be nearby was the only way to do it, evading the _Aeros_'s detection abilities, then so be it.

Funny how middle grounds never seemed to present themselves these days.

On the seas of slipspace, the bottles were sent.

* * *

Slipstream space, Shaw-Fujikawa space, subspace, the Void…in the end, the names didn't matter. All that mattered was that this seven-dimensional realm allowed for travel between the stars, jumping through darkness to reach creation's light. Or, if need be, send messages between those who dwelt in such light.

On the sea between stars, there were currents. And like the currents of any sea, these currents interacted with each other. Different speeds, different directions, alternating at random. How and why was a mystery to those who had sent their messages to the river of the stars. And what was even greater of a mystery was why these currents were moving faster than anything that had ever been observed.

And considering the distinctly un-human reason for the flash flood of slipspace permeating the Chi Mu System, perhaps that was not all that surprising…

* * *

_A/N_

_(2011-08-05)_

_Corrected grammar errors._


	4. Divergence

.

**Halo: Shadows of Hope**

**Chapter 4: Divergence**

**UNSC frigate **_**Wild Endeavour**_

**Status: Patrolling Outer Colony/Inner Colony border region**

Pointless…that's how he'd describe his situation.

Not that he would voice such thoughts, or most likely even be asked a question pertaining to them. It was to be expected really. The reactions of naval crewmen, even fellow soldiers, to a metal clad behemoth in Mark IV MJOLNIR Powered Assault Armor were limited in variety, restricted to either keeping a wide berth or staring in awe. There _were_ exceptions however, an example being the group of ODSTs that had probably been as bored as he was and had been looking for a way to alleviate it.

For the first, and hopefully the last time, he'd fallen into the old "what the hell trap" then and paid the price, namely landing several jarheads with broken bones and a concussion in the ship's infirmary. Since then, he had resolved to keep his distance from anyone and everyone; a setup that suited the crew just fine.

_But not Green Team…_ mused the Spartan-II, continuing his stride through the ship's passages, determined to be doing _something_. _It doesn't suit any of us…_

It was not his place to question his superiors but rather obey them. Still, the frustration would not go away. Sargurine had been one of the most fortified worlds in the Outer Colonies, a world that may have actually been able to slow down the Covenant advance. Instead, the local forces and most of the populace, deciding that a better course of action would be attempting to negotiate with the advancing aliens. Disagreeing with such a plan, the UNSC force had reacted heavy handily, the result being that Sargurine was at war even _before _the Covenant showed up.

The results were rather spectacular. And messy.

And _this _was where the _Wild Endeavour _had ended up as a result patrolling space for any Covenant activity, the worth of such a maneuver lost on him. After all, why would alien vessels choose to emerge _between _star systems? As far as he could tell, it was simply part of the Colonial Administration Authority's insistence that, even as it surrendered more of its powers to the UNSC, that it had not given up on the Outer Colonies, all the while holding the bulk of the navy back to make a proper stand in the Inner Colonies. All part of a plan to sacrifice lives and source of raw materials (of which the Outer Colonies had an ample supply of) for time; time to better fortify the core worlds. As such, to his knowledge at least, Admiral Preston Cole's fleet was the only active one throughout this region of the galaxy, fighting a running battle to…

The Spartan-II's mental train of thought ground to a halt, his movement stopping short instantly. Shifting his head, his stance adjusted to give him optimum balance, he cast out his senses-senses that were beyond those of any normal human. Naval Code 45812 had done its job well, producing a physically augmented super soldier whose senses were sophisticated enough to sense a shift in the ship's course...

He didn't know why this was the case, and curiosity did not really prompt him to discover the reason. However, this was a change of situation and as such, he was obliged to adapt to it so that he may better serve his superiors. Within twenty milliseconds, his mind…no, instinct (after all, the mind, specifically the unwanted indulgence that was imagination, was untamed, a potential distraction and therefore a hazard to his ability to operate effectively) had kicked in, determining that the best course of action was heading for the bridge, ready to receive answers and orders.

It was all that he lived for.

It took him 1.237 minutes to reach the bridge…or at least he thought it did. Weeks of spending time in a sterile environment hadn't done his mental awareness any favors. It was at home that he best functioned…on the battlefield. Not some piece of metal hanging in space that was about as far away from the battlefield as you could get…

_At least the bridge's crew is at home…_

It didn't take enhanced reflexes to come to that conclusion, the swabbies' rapid movements of typing, walking and sometimes both simultaneously conveying a sense of purpose and ease that came from doing your job in a controlled environment. At least, he assumed that was the case for them. Controlled environments were rather tame for him and his battle brothers and sisters. They lacked challenge, the unexpected, the-…

"Can I help you?"

Alright, so maybe the bridge _did_ have the unexpected. To an extent…

Swiveling his gaze faster than what was possible for many humans, he found that things had become slightly more unexpected, finding the ship's commander giving him a salute. If one could see past his polarized visor, a small twitch in the forehead may have been seen; the equivalent of raising an eyebrow (which was far too unsubtle). He couldn't remember the last time someone had actually shook his hand-usually it was just salutes, the question being which came first. Still, taking his superior's hand and shaking it, he quickly lapsed back into comfortable formality.

"Petty Officer Second Class Spartan-029 reporting," the NCO said.

"At ease," Commander Cho Ling as she dropped her hand. She turned her back to him, going back to looking over a single piece of paper that she was holding.

"I'm glad you're here," Ling murmured, her eyes still fixed on the piece of paper. "It would be good to have someone of your caliber going over this."

The petty officer wasn't sure what to make of this situation. Still, finding a single piece of paper in his hands a second later, he had a good idea.

"So, what do you make of this?" Ling asked, looking up at the seven foot tall armored behemoth, scrutinizing him with dark eyes that became her Asian ethnicity. Korean, with a trace of Han Chinese to be specific, although in this day and age, such distinctions were rarely made.

Not that this mattered to -029 as he looked over the paper, having not been trained to deal with demographics. Analysis however, _had_ been included. As such, it only took him a few seconds to decipher the code.

"It's a distress signal from a slipstream package," he said, handing the paper back to his superior. "Requesting reinforcements to the Chi Mu System via encrypted code and…" He trailed off. "Odd…"

"What is?"

-029 shrugged. "It seems odd…no mention of situation, operational strength or urgency of request. It's…well, extremely general."

"My thoughts exactly," said Ling. "And it's not just that. We don't know what we're getting into. We're just one ship and this could be a trap…"

-029 remained silent as he looked back at the paper. It was a simple alpha numeric-hardly sophisticated, but non-standard. Either ONI was losing its touch, or this kind of code wasn't in their database. But all ships had full access to naval coding. Why diverge from that and produce a code that would require manual translation?

_Unless you're Covenant…_

"Before you ask, I don't like this," said Ling. "But hell, anything's better patrolling empty space while the brass chases after its own tail." She turned and faced the main view screen. "At least, while they still have a tail to chase…"

The Spartan twitched again, albiet less subtlely. He wasn't used to people speaking ill of their superiors, bar that Army CO Halsey and Mendez often went on about (Anderson? Acklensan? Whatever, probably not important). Still, what he was admittedly more used to nowadays was people thrust into positions that they weren't ready for. In the space of a few seconds he guessed that not only was Ling new to this, but was also basing her actions as much as his advice as her own gut instinct.

Well, at least her instinct was in the right place…

"I'm here to fight, not command," Green Team's leader said eventually, handing the request back to the commander. "Still, we have nothing to gain by hanging out here. And one frigate could make more of a difference in a general request than the difference that would result from being lost."

Ling nodded. "Aye…you're right. Thank you."

-029 blinked. Thanks? When was the last time he'd received _that_?

Well, no matter. He didn't care anyway.

* * *

**CCS-class battlecruiser **_**Divine Crusader**_

**Location: Seven miles north of human settlement, upper canyon wall near Forerunner artifact**

**Status: Inoperable**

Any living creature is affected by its environment and despite his status, the Prophet of Devotion was no exception, especially not in his current circumstances. Residing in his personal quarters with a gaping hole in the roof above him, he was understandably…well, annoyed was too tame a word. _Livid _would have been a better description.

Of course, the san 'shyuum had not risen to the position of leaders of the most powerful galactic empire in history (short of the Forerunners of course) by losing their cool. That was more the role of the jiralhanae or a peeved kig-yar faced with an impetuous unggoy. While lesser species squabbled, the Prophets stood (or rather sat on gravity thrones) high, watching impassively, if only in appearance. Still, a certain san 'shyuum on a downed battlecruiser was anything but passive, as his latest journal entry indicated. And doing his best to keep his temper in check, Devotion began to proofread…

_The gods are either testing my devotion to the Great Journey or have seen fit to curse me with an imbecile of a shipmaster. Although my faith is absolute and have not erred from the true path to my knowledge, recent events do indeed raise the possibility that the latter is involved to an extent. Although I have no right to question the actions of our lords and masters, they could have picked a better time to test my belief._

_In a word, 'Tikawomee is an imbecile. How he ever came to command a ship is beyond me and, unless there are signs of improvement in his ability, I shall seek to find out. He has proven himself to be most useless in ship combat, destroying a mere two enemy frigates before having his own ship crippled by a larger capital ship that he should have reacted to before coming into weapon's range. Such a performance was…lackluster, to say the least (and the least it is)._

_The issue of the strength of his belief is another issue that concerns me, a concern which stems from him voicing commands to initiate a self-destruct sequence upon atmospheric entry to prevent the ship from falling into human hands. Although this is a sangheili protocol over which I have no power, I cannot help but marvel at the idiocy of such a suggestion. Suppose one of our ships _did _fall into the hands of our enemies. What then? What could those barbarians possibly do with such a thing? Their minds are too primitive to comprehend even the most basic of our technology, even when such technology is but a shadow of what has come before. Just as well I suppose. The Forerunners had no intention of letting vermin use the products of their prowess. Such a right is ours alone._

_But I digress. The issue of 'Tikawomee has become increasingly pressing as of late. He has his uses of course, acting as a leader to the soldiers this ship possesses, but his authority is starting to come into conflict with my own. I wonder…if an unfortunate and entirely unforeseen accident were to occur, one which removed him from our midst, would that be a loss or gain to the Covenant? It is a question that I have to consider._

_Of course, there are many things that I must consider. Although we have landed on a world tainted by the foul feet of humanity, it has, for the most part, escaped their corruption. At least one collection of primitive structures is located on this world, but has not tainted it as much as other worlds, a fact for which I am grateful. Any resistance they throw at us will be light, allowing a team to be sent into the relic. Although millennia old and having only reactivated itself recently, I am certain it is capable of full activation._

_Soon, it shall begin. The time of ascension is nigh. Once I enter the foundation, I shall-_

"Holy Prophet? May I have a word?"

Devotion's train of thought screeched to a halt, the Prophet turning to face the door to his chambers with remarkable speed. 'Tikawomee stood there.

"Yes?" asked the san'shyuum irritably.

'Tikawomee began to kneel but the Prophet interrupted. "Don't bother ship master, our situation does not give us the luxury of pomp and circumstance."

The sangheili's visage darkened. "You don't know how right you are."

* * *

A lowly shipmaster entering a Prophet's personal quarters was a rare occurrence, reserved for either extreme circumstances or for those whom had proven themselves in the Prophet's eyes. As far as Devotion was concerned, circumstances nor 'Tikawomee's ability (or lack of it) prompted such an action. Therefore, they began heading for the ship's corridors.

Still, it may have been in the Covenant's interests to have Devotion make an exception. Their presence may have dissuaded the shadowy individual who had been hiding above from dropping down, lithely landing on the floor next to the console. A console that the san'shyuum had left on.

The figure was clearly humanoid, albeit taller and slimmer than the average biped, moving with fluid grace. Most distinct however, was its attire; metal covered its entire body. Sleek, polished metal of which the only exception was a baleful red glow in the center of its forehead, standing in contrast to the wires socketed into the back of its head, extending down into the spine. It leant down on the desk and, courtesy of translation systems, began reading the Covenant writing, comprehending with cold logic the possibilities it presented.

_Interesting…_

* * *

**Chi Mu System, Settlement 01 ("Thunderville")**

**Planet Hope**

History had shown that space travel was a bad idea. Up to around a decade ago, practically every piece of fiction that featured aliens had humans on the receiving end, no doubt a side effect of a consciousness trying to justify militaristic imperialism and the need to answer to a single government on an unremarkable planet orbiting Sol. And with first contact actually vindicating everything from B-grade movies to sci-fi classics that loosely fit into the apocalypse category…well, suffice to say that people weren't too fond of aliens nowadays.

It was therefore understandable that the arrival of a cruiser of this alien conglomeration had set Hope's citizens on edge at best and induced hysteria at worst. The marines were little better, roving up and down street on foot and in Warthogs, supposedly ensuring that order was maintained, but really running around like chickens with one leg…or one of those three legged chickens bred for the circus via genetic recombination. Either way, for people that had been out of action for three years, they were having a tough time getting back into it.

Alan Ellison, having been on the surface when the battlecruiser came down, didn't give it much thought. Similes were the last thing on his mind right now, especially-…

"Ellison, what the hell are you doing!"

…since someone was calling him.

Walking around aimlessly, comprehending what had just occurred, Ellison hadn't been fully aware of the direction that he was headed. It was only now that he realized that he'd strayed near the edge of the town, namely one of the many checkpoints. It was at such a checkpoint that a group of Warthogs was present, led by-…

"First Lieutenant Physon, how corking to see you," said the engineer promptly, standing up straight and giving a salute with the speed that came from having a peeved superior officer bearing down on you.

"Spare me the antics private, I'm not your commanding officer.

_And that God for that, _Ellison mused, coming face to face with someone who had not only managed to get an officer's commission but also look akin to a bear at the same time.

At first glance, a casual observer would have probably mistaken Physon for a sergeant. With facial and scalp hair that was brown and bushy, akin to a grizzly bear that had tried to shave itself but failed miserably, he certainly looked the part of an NCO. Big, gruff and intimidating, he conformed to the sergeant stereotype perfectly, or at least would have done had he possessed the "strict but fair" aspect that NCO stereotypes tended to conform to. However, it would be at this point that one would see the single silver bar on Physon's uniform and not be surprised at all. He was a lieutenant, an individual who strove to ascend through the ranks and make life hell for anyone who got in his way…

Like Private First Class Alan Ellison for example.

"Don't you have something to be working on?" Physon snarled. "Something by the name of Goliath for example?"

"That's classified sir," Ellison responded smugly, glad to be placing a bee up Physon's arse that would spill blood one way or another. "I'm afraid that I'm not at liberty to-…"

"Well if you're not at liberty to discuss it, then how are you at liberty to be strolling around like…like…"

Ellison smirked as Physon strove to find a good choice of words. The asshole was so wrapped up in his soldier life that he couldn't find a way to describe the lifestyle of the opposite.

But still, Ellison admitted, he had a point. A Covenant battlecruiser had come crashing down, no doubt bringing heavy equipment with it, and all the force here at Hope to defend the settlement was five companies of rusty soldiers and a trio of equally rusty tanks. Goliath could make a difference in the inevitable conflict, but as long as it was operational. Of course, Ellison mused bitterly, his job would have been much easier if he'd been working with people who were actually competent, instead of being morons who couldn't tell the difference between a spanner and a screwdriver.

_Then again, maybe it's my fault to. It's not as if you ever expected it to be able to make a difference…_

"Anyway, you know what I mean," said Physon, drawing Ellison back to reality. "Just get your arse back to your pet project, private. I've got some soldiers to find." He turned and started heading for the waiting convoy.

"Wait, missing soldiers?" Ellison asked, walking after the lieutenant. Physon stopped and turned and raised an eyebrow in a single motion.

"What rock have you been hiding under private?" asked Physon, trying to sound condescending but not entirely succeeding. "Didn't you hear about the ODSTs?"

"No…why?" Ellison asked, though beginning to regret his curiosity. If fellow marines were missing, Ellison would have genuinely cared. ODSTs however, no doubt the same ones who had touched down this morning…well, you could only care so much about trigger happy, gung-ho psychos who loved to shout "jump feet first into hell!" at every opportunity.

Physon would have got on great with them. Maybe that's why he was willing to head out rather than fulfill his role as CO asshole.

"Orders from Major Howard," Physon continued. "We lost contact with them two hours ago. At first, we thought it was a radio malfunction but-…"

"Wait, two hours ago?" Ellison asked. "But that was before the Covenant showed up. How could-…"

One of the Warthog drivers beeped, diverting both Physon and Ellison's attention. Without a word, Physon ran over, jumped in the passenger seat of the lead vehicle and hung on as the convoy rolled off, heading north. Right into the esophagus of the beast, if not its belly.

_With all that hair, maybe the Covenant will choke on it._

Sighing, Ellison knew that he should go. Goliath was giving him trouble and he was no David, but still, everyone on this colony had a job to do. Hell, even Physon was a necessary evil, even if his role was to lead fellow marines into what could be a killing ground and, given the dark clouds, what looked like a storm. With a shrug of not indifference, but rather ressignment, Ellison headed off, hoping that he could find some stones for his proverbial slingshot.

Thunder rolled…

…it rolled snake eyes.

* * *

Darkness.

There was nothing unnatural about this darkness. Buried underground, removed from sight and mind, no light could penetrate stone. Light from _within _however, was another matter.

Full illumination was still a long way away. But he had time. He'd spent an eternity in darkness…what difference would a few more hours make?

He quickly deleted such a thought stream. He had to be prompt in illumination. The artifact had been reactivated and as such, must be made ready for use. And if such use required illumination, he would gladly provide it, along with whatever else his masters desired.

Such was the role of a Monitor…

* * *

_A/N_

_(2011-08-05)_

_Corrected spelling and grammar errors._


	5. Of Spartans and Scheming

.

**Halo: Shadows of Hope**

**Chapter 5: Of Spartans and Scheming**

**UNSC **_**Wild Endeavour**_

**Status: En route to planet Hope, Chi Mu System**

"That is all. Any queries?"

-029 knew that he was, for all intents and purposes, asking a rhetorical question. He, his four counterparts before him and all the other members of his kind currently in service had had just as much training understanding orders as delivering them. Probably more, all things considered. More often than not, they were following the orders of their superiors and on the rare occasion that they _did _give orders, it only took one to do it.

_Truly efficient,_ he thought, permitting himself a small smile that he knew could not be seen past his polarized visor. _As it should be._

The Spartan-II wasn't sure whether order begat efficiency or vice versa but chose instead to focus on the results, the four other soldiers making up Green Team standing silently in line, the silence providing the answer that no, there weren't any queries with their current mission. To emerge in the Chi Mu System at approximately 17-1800 hours standard time, find out the reason why the slipstream package was sent and if necessary, deal with the reason. A simple plan which was easy to carry out, at least in theory. Unfortunately, there was a word in that sentence that -029 didn't like and sure as hell wasn't "simple".

Simplicity had begun to lose its sway nowadays. Every one of them had started off in a team of three, then working up into squads of five and so on and so forth. The size of their units had to be scaled back after augmentation of course, the grand total of seventy-five super soldiers being effectively scaled down to thirty-three in a couple of weeks. Bonds had been broken and had to be readjusted, the color coded squads being reformatted. At least, that was how it would have worked in theory. Instead, with rapidly changing battlelines and planets dropping like flies at the mercy of a mad housewife (whatever that was), the S-II squads had to change at every interval. Hell, what made Green Team at this point in time was just a group of five S-IIs who made it onto the same bloody ship.

_Maybe that's the reason for the silence… _-029 thought silently. _We're heading for the unknown, our squad made up of a group of strangers who have little to no experience in fighting alongside each other, not to mention that the only given in this operation is that space combat is to be expected. _

He suppressed a small shudder. -034 had set a precedent almost a decade ago that space combat was taboo. -029 suspected that even a decade later, that taboo would still be maintained in all of their sub-consciousness.

The squad leader studied the four other members of his unit, seeking to gauge whether their silence was driven more by understanding or unease. Gauging -044, designation Green 2 was a lost cause. -029 had never worked with him before and given Green 2's proficiency as a field scout, he doubted that many had. He could only hope that he had skills other than solitary operations.

-029 steadily shifted his gaze to the right, skimming over -093, designation Green 3, and in turn Green 4 and Green 5, designations -030 and -039 respectively. In principle, -029 knew that he had little to worry about. The pair had served together in numerous engagements and were therefore in sync. Nothing to worry about there.

_Supposedly at least, _-029 reminded himself. _How will a pair function in the company of three unknowns? _He couldn't answer the question himself, but resolved to find out. After all, what was it that Mendez had said? "The wise man is able to adapt to changing circumstances. The wiser man does not have to."

As it was, changing circumstances included a query from Green 5.

"Doesn't this seem odd to you?" he asked, a break to the five second silence that had followed the end of -029's briefing. It was addressed mainly to his squad leader, though intended for the rest of them to hear.

"What seems odd?" -029 asked.

"This mission. We're heading into a possible space battle on a single frigate on the behest of nothing but a slipstream package dispatched in suspicious circumstances?" -039 looked at his other squad mates. "Doesn't any of this seem strange to you?"

"Our porogative is to follow orders, not question them," -044 murmured.

"True, and I don't have a problem with that," -039 said hastily. "Still, I'd rather know what kind of battle I was getting into before getting into it, not to mention that space combat isn't exactly our thing."

-029 supposed he had to concede the point. Green 5 was stating the obvious, but sometimes the obvious needed stating. Still, such a need was only needed in battle, and considering that they had yet to engage in any such conflict, a lack of conviction was hardly needed.

_It's understandable though_ -029 reminded himself. _After Sargurine, anyone would be feeling at a low point._

Of course, considering that a Spartan II was not "anyone", it was cold comfort.

"We'll take that under advisement," -029 said eventually, sweeping his gaze across Green Team. "Squad dismissed."

Green Leader led the dismissal himself, walking out of the briefing room. Time was a luxury they had, but luxury in itself was never something that should be embraced. They had plans to make, weapons to prime…certainly they had better things to do than wait to see -039 take out an old print photo out of a clip satchel and gaze at it, murmuring something to himself as he put it back in and followed…

"For you, guys. Always for you."

* * *

**CCS-class battlecruiser **_**Divine Crusader**_

**Location: Seven miles north of human settlement, upper canyon wall near Forerunner relic**

**Status: Pending**

Shipmaster Udo 'Tikawomee liked to think that bad news was anathema to the Covenant. Given their sought destiny of embarking upon the Great Journey and the numerous obstacles they had to overcome to follow their gods into the divine beyond, ill circumstances was something that they could do without. Of course, there was hardly a fine line between idealism and reality, but rather a fortified wall with plasma turrets every few meters. And much to the sangheili's chagrin, he was on the wrong side of it.

Then again, the Covenant as a whole seemed to be on the wrong side of the line between fantasy and reality nowadays, hammering down on the empire as heavily as the rain was currently on the cruiser's hull (or rather what was left of it). True, they'd passed from an Age of Doubt to an Age of Reclamation, but like all passages, the transition was hardly a road without its bumps. And considering that said Age of Reclamation was focused on a war of extermination, a war that had been prompted by the razing of a planet's worth of artifacts in the Reliquary System…

''Tikawomee drew himself back from reflection. Ponder much longer and he'd get to the fact that it had been the jiralhanae who had obtained the honor of taking first blood. Just thinking about the disgusting apes made him nauseous, let alone the fact that, gods forbid, they were now being given ships that possessed more than the bare necessities. It was only a matter of time before they confronted the sangheili-the Covenant's proverbial Alpha males.

_Just like I'm doing now, _thought 'Tikawomee as his gaze met his superior's, having finished delivering the bad news that he liked to consider anathema. _Albiet on an Omega level._

"So let me get this straight," said Devotion slowly, looking up from the parchment that 'Tikawomee had given him (the shipmaster would have usually used a data slate, but his usual one had gone missing. Huragok no doubt). "Our trajectory has taken us to the artifact's doorstep, but also took us over this world's human settlement."

The sangheili nodded, settling upon silence as the best virtue in his current situation. The san' shyuum was clearly working up to a climax and unlike the deep roll of thunder, he thought best not to interrupt.

"In addition, as he passed near the relic, we detected a convoy of human vehicles of light reconnaissance classification. To this end, you dispatched a squadron of Banshees to engage them and found that they were within range of the artifact indicating that they might have taken an interest in it. While the Banshees gave chase and succeeded in destroying the wretches, there remains the possibility that they could have established contact with whatever command they were reporting to."

''Tikawomee nodded once again, still maintaining his silence. With any other Prophet, the shipmaster launching aerial flyers from a moving cruiser inside a planet's atmosphere was no mean feat. Still, ''Tikawomee had long since realized that the Forerunners would sooner return to the material plane than Devotion giving him praise of any kind.

_Why am I so worried about praise anyway? _the sangheili wondered. He shook away the thought, ashamed at what it suggested about himself.

"A well written report overall," said Devotion eventually, tossing the parchment aside "But merely a summary of what I already know."

"What?" the shipmaster blurted out. "But…but how could you know this already? The time between these events and me reporting them to you was-…"

"Such a time is not an issue," said Devotion firmly. "The real issue is-…"

"Prophet, considering that we are currently stranded on an enemy held world, an enemy which would rather torch holy relics rather than allow us to obtain anything that the gods left behind for us to find, I think that I'm the one who should decide what is and isn't an issue, status as this ship's commander aside."

"Indeed?" sneered Devotion. "Then, oh supreme commander, would it not fall into your providence to rid us of this danger? To ensure that none of our enemies survived the initial Banshee wave and then purge this world of the miasma situated seven miles south of our position?"

The sangheili's mandibles stretched back and forth a few times, the saurian seemingly having trouble forming words. Overall, he wasn't sure what surprised him most-that Devotion was actually giving him military advice, that the advice actually made sense or that he'd reached the position where such advice had to be given in the first place. Considering things such as the Writ of Union and what remained of his pride, none of the options were particularly appealing.

"It does fall under my providence," said ''Tikawomee eventually, trying to match the san 'shyuum's diplomatic ability. "And I shall see it done."

Devotion watched ''Tikawomee head over to converse with his second in command, Andra 'Serafomee, toying with the idea of asking why he was doing so if he was the one who would "see it done." It appeared that the field master had as many reservations about the issue as his captain, wondering whether it would not be best to defend the ship until more forces were summoned, not to mention that the vermin had more intelligence on the area than they did. Still, 'Tikawomee was at least loyal enough to bring his hoof down, ordering his subordinate to follow his orders to the letter. With the matter resolved and Devotion given some privacy, the san 'shyuum was finally able to collect his own thoughts.

As slovenly as cycles of fruitless searching had apparently made the sangheili onboard this ship, Devotion knew that he was not blameless either. Going over documents was nothing new to him, even those written on parchment, but to have a report reiterating what he already knew tested his patience more than he cared for. The problem however, was that he knew things that he supposedly didn't, demonstrating carelessness that he considered himself above. Not a breach of the chain of command, considering that he was at the top, but if 'Tikawomee knew how he was aware of such actions…well, that could lead to complications. Bloodshed even.

_But it won't come to that…_the Prophet reminded himself, gripping his gravity throne for reasons other than balance. _I won't let that happen…_

Allowing himself a small smile, Devotion knew that his words stemmed from confidence without an "over" prefix. Sangheili were easily manipulated, especially when one appealed to their egos. 'Tikawomee would focus on eradicating the humans for the next few units, giving Devotion enough time to…to…

_To what?_

The Prophet blinked, only now realizing his lack of a proper plan, at least one pending to this situation. Somehow he had to keep ''Tikawomee focused on his task, achieve his own objectives and ensure that Covenant reinforcements arrived before human ones did, yet not before he'd achieved his goals. Perhaps rescinding ''Tikawomee's request to call in the Fleet of Purity hadn't been the best idea in the world…

_No matter_ Devotion thought to himself, heading out of the bridge while typing in code on his gravity throne as he did so. _I always liked a challenge. Now all I have to do is hope that my protégée likes one as well…_

With a hologram appearing on the side of his vessel, the san 'shyuum supposed he'd find out.

"Lord Devotion?" asked the recipient, falling to a knee in a display of reverence that was befitting of his kind. "This is an unexpected pleasure."

"Yes, it is, isn't it?" the Prophet said airily, trying to sound like the grandfather that he'd never be (blasted Role of Celibates!). "I suppose that on this ball of rock and dust, one can find solace in even the most basic of pleasures."

"Oh indeed my lord."

Telling the sangheili before him to rise, Devotion fought back a sneer. In many ways, Prero 'Cleraomee reminded him of _Divine Crusader_'s shipmaster-loyal to a fault, but at the cost of making the effort seem strained. Still, the recently promoted major domo was young, a shine in his eyes matching that of his armor, even if the color of dried blood. While Devotion could not claim to have foreseen finally locating the artifact he'd sought for all these cycles, he had taken steps to ensure that when the time came, he would be ready. So having given considerable attention to the sangheili displayed to him via hologram, subtlely feeding his pride over time and ensuring his promotion half a year ago, he knew that 'Cleraomee would obey his orders, even as the ship prepared for war.

"I have a job for you," said the Prophet calmly. "One that I'm afraid does not involve you joining your brethren in the upcoming battle."

Apart from a slight twitch in his mandibles, the major domo remained silent. So far so good-he didn't like the notion of the san 'shyuum's orders, as was proper given what he understood of sangheili nature, but would still follow his leader's demands. A pleasing combination.

"As you may know, there is a relic of the Ancients not so far from here, one that as far as we can tell, has yet to be despoiled by the humans as is their tendency. And while 'Tikawomee ensures that the worms never receive the chance to do so, I want you to enter it. With my blessing of course."

Faith…it was a wonderful thing, especially for a certain race of surians who venerated Forerunner artifacts, allowing the Prophets to study and observe in a scientific manner. And coupling that faith with the implied notion that his actions would be linked to the race that all Covenant despised, Devotion could not help but be just a bit proud of his manipulative ability.

"It…this is an honor," 'Cleraomee stuttered, his words as honest as Devotion could have hoped for. "I shall inform my shipmaster of-…"

"No, don't do that," Devotion interrupted hastily. "Your shipmaster has a lot on his mind right now, he doesn't need to be bothered with this. "Just take a file of your fellow sangheili and report back to me."

"…It will be done."

It was only when the hologram of the major domo disappeared that the Prophet let out a sigh of relief. It wasn't outside his rights to order investigation of the relic, even in the midst of the threat of an enemy force-after all, hadn't Regret ordered an Arbiter to do the same thing three years ago? Still, it was also within 'Tikawomee's rights to be kept in the loop. Still, as long as he was focusing on the humans, that probably wouldn't matter so much. By the time the shipmaster's forces, conveniently removed from the ship had soaked this world's soil with red blood, Devotion would at least have the knowhow to obtain what he sought. And even then, 'Tikawomee would probably assume the relic was just like any other until it was too late.

_It isn't that simple though…_Devotion reminded himself. _'Cleraomee is loyal. But if that loyalty extends to the shipmaster overmuch then…_

Well, if that occurred, the Prophet would deal with it.

After all, his secret agents had yet to let him down…

* * *

As far as he could tell, Prophets were slow. Their servants however, were another story.

Approaching the relic's entrance, a gaping open doorway that separated dark from light, the visitor hesitated. He knew what the device could do and knew that if he were to take it for himself, he would have to enter before the alien or his minions did. However, things were never that easy. He'd learnt that the hard way.

_I have to do this…_ the wanderer told himself. _It is the only way…_

Too much was at stake for the outcome to be any different.

* * *

_A/N_

_It's probably overkill to list every single change/addition/removal in this fic compared to original conceptions. However, in regards to Green Team, I think it may be worth mentioning for the sake of posterity how many changes it went through. The basic fact is that in this version, the members are all canon ones from official material. In the past, one of them was a black sheep angsty Gary Stu OC and another of them I replaced based on _Halo Encyclopedia _information. It's the first concept that irks me. To be honest, from what I've experienced in _Halo _fanfiction over the years is that the Spartan-IIs are basically crying out to writers for self insertion, even if it's on the sub-concious level. Noble Six is an exception of sorts, but just looking at summaries, at OCs...I don't know, it's just that in experience, there's been very few instances where a writer has used a S-II OC that hasn't got at least some kind of trait that's at odds with the norm somehow._

_Am I innocent from this? Even now, the answer would probably be no. However, I found that making the team comprised of pre-existing members worked well against that subconcious urge to go down the dark road of black sheep and Sueness/Stuness. Elements have remained, but with far less angst. The likes of Soren and Jai I think are a good limit of the extent to which one of the S-II's can be angsty without going over the top. Suffice to say, the OC I created not only went past that line, but took the rest of the fic above the shark as well. So while I anticipate criticism, and probably deserve it, I feel I can at least honestly say that at the very least, I've moved forward from the newbie writer super-soldier wanabee self-insertion phase..._

_...just saying that made me feel all dirty. 0_0_

_On another note, since a reviewer brought it up mere minutes before I intended to post this, I suppose I should address time stamps, or the lack thereoff. To me, time/location stamps add to a fic only when the fic actually warrants them. If the fic doesn't warrent them, it makes the fic seem clunky and maybe even along the lines of taking itself too seriously. To use familiar examples, time stamps in _The Fall of Reach _and _Reach _worked very well because of the long period of time and many locations the stories were set in. However, this story takes place over too small an area and too short a time to warrant such a modus operandi-a change from earlier versions where my mentality was along the lines of "it's _Halo_-time stamps are compulsory." To me, they're not anymore-hopefully a change for the better._

_(2011-08-05)_

_Corrected some spelling errors._


	6. Dark Loomings

.

**Halo: Shadows of Hope**

**Chapter 6: Dark Loomings**

**M12 LRV Warthog Romeo 1**

**Location: Plains north of Settlement 01 ("Thunderville")**

**Mission: Rescue/recover Orbital Drop Shock Troopers dispatched from **_**Aeros**_

"So el-tee, you think Ellison's working on his pet project? Or slacking off?"

With a start, Physon was brought out of his revile. It was strange as to how engrossing barren soil could be, especially when one considered that it was the same soil that had been present in your life for three years. Still, everyone had to find _some_ way to alleviate boredom and First Lieutenant Phillip Physon preferred to do it without filling his system with…well, best not to go there.

"Sir?"

With a sigh, the CO turned away from what passed for a view and faced what passed for a marine these days, in this case, Private First Class Jack Hawkins. From what the lieutenant knew, the kid was twenty-one years old, had served in the UNSC Marine Corps since the age of eighteen and was full of himself as a result. Hardly surprising that he'd landed himself in this posting all things considered, thinking that the last month of the Harvest Campaign was as good as fighting in all of it.

_But if that's the case, why am I here? _Physon wondered, not bothering to squash the seeds of arrogance being reaped. Still, best to get to the engineer the grunt had mentioned.

"Ellison's working on what now?" the lieutenant asked.

"I asked whether you think Ellison's working on Goliath or taking a break," Hawkins asked, his gaze focused on the route to the northern canyon but his attention anywhere but. "Collie seems to have faith in him but…" He trailed off.

Physon didn't answer at first, turning back to face Corporal Ryan Collie, the NCO holding onto the Warthog's light anti-aircraft gun with one hand and holding a pair of field binoculars with the other. Thinking it best not to disturb him, Physon turned his gaze back to the PFC.

"I'm tempted to guess that he's working on his project," said the lieutenant slowly, leaning back against his seat as he did so. "But I think I'd be letting hope get to me if I did."

"The planet or the emotion?"

"Both."

Physon hoped that the conversation would end there. Considering everything that had transpired in the last few hours, he wasn't exactly in a talkative mood and besides, it was rarely a wise move for lieutenants to become too familiar with those under their command. Whenever that happened, someone usually ended up with a bullet between their eyes. Or plasma bolt as the case had become.

"Um, how would the planet get you to say yes?" asked Hawkins curiously, dashing Physon's hopes that he'd have some peace of mind for at least a few minutes.

"Simple," said Collie, lowering the binoculars and leaning forward over the turret. "The planet is so pisswater it gets to you. And when that happens, you have to place faith in-…"

"Pisswater?" exclaimed Hawkins, turning to look back at the corporal and driving over a pothole as a result. "I thought we agreed that it was backwater."

"And there's a difference?"

"Of course," protested Hawkins, driving over another two potholes and narrowly missing a boulder. "The difference between a backwater planet and a pisswater planet is-…"

"Hawkins, shut the hell up!"

Two pairs of eyes focused on the Physon, the result being another close shave with a boulder. Collie leant back from the turret while Hawkins gulped, seeing that Physon had reached his usual state of existence-borderline psychotic, the type of individual who'd be the first person you'd want with you in a fire fight and the last person to be with outside of one. And unless the roll of thunder was an indication of something the Covies were up to, Hawkins doubted that he'd find himself in the former anytime soon.

"Both of you have jobs to do," snarled Physon, his patience having evaporated. "And I suggest you do them."

"But sir, we were just-…"

"No buts!" Physon spat. "Focus on the driving private, or I'll shove my boot so far up your arse that you'll taste the dog shit I stepped in last week!"

Hawkins quickly and silently returned to the wheel, deciding not to point out that there wasn't a single dog or any other domesticated animal on the planet. At least not anymore. One of the marines had brought her cat with her, only to have the poor creature be used for target practice on a booze filled Christmas Eve.

Santa hadn't brought a replacement.

Physon returned to staring out over the dirt plains, knowing that even if Hawkins had continued to pester him, he couldn't have summoned up the energy to deal with it. Boredom had been an enemy faced by every soldier since day one and if Hawkins and Collie had to deal with it by acting like children, so be it. Of course, since practically every soldier on this planet was a child, no-one apart from Major Howard and Physon himself beyond their mid-thirties…Physon shook his head. He needed to think.

Hope had represented something once to D Company, and that was just that- hope. Early 2531 had been a good time period for humanity, what with Harvest being reclaimed and all, but the cost of the battle hardly fell under the classification of "good". Despite having been turned into a wasteland akin to nuclear winter, the outer colony had still featured Covenant forces on its surface and while the human and alien navies battled in the skies, a number of marine forces had been deployed planet side.

Like every encounter with the Covenant (at least as far as Physon could tell), the results were costly…so costly that the 31st had been largely decimated, with D Company no exception. New recruits, Collie and Hawkins among them, had been shipped in to replace the hole in the closing stages of the campaign. The problem however, was that the hole pretty much resembled D Company as a whole, ensuring that it was green, but hardly "mean" or a "fighting machine." A huge disparity existed between grizzled veterans, newbies and with not enough people to bridge the gap, a dichotomy existed between old and new that at times, threatened to tear the unit apart. In the aftermath of Cole's final victory, it was clear that something had to be done.

_And then they sent us to Hope_ reflected Physon. _How decent of them._

It had certainly seemed decent at the time. Harvest had been hell and while the war was far from over, to keep the largely decimated 31st in the field would have been counterproductive. To allow a swift recovery, D Company had been transferred to Hope for some quick R&R and wait for further orders.

_But they never came _reflected Physon bitterly. _They never fucking came._

With the benefit of hindsight, Physon knew that the situation was strange from the start. Five companies separate from their division to stand guard over a planet without any other ground support? True, it needed time to recoup from its losses, but it also needed to train its recruits and the lack of real combat wouldn't accomplish that. And why use marines to guard a planet anyway? Why not simply use the Army, or train a Colonial Militia? True, the civilians knew how to use weapons-three years of casual interaction saw to that, but it hardly counted as CMT…

_And what's there to protect on Hope anyway? _Physon wondered. _What could possibly warrant us staying here for three years to do jack all?_

The CO didn't know and his current mission to lead Romeo Reconnaissance Team, or in a search for missing ODST soldiers in light of a Covenant battlecruiser crash landing wasn't helping his state of mind. That they'd taken M12s instead of M914s or M831s (neither of which the company had) had seemed to pay off, but it was cold comfort in the end. Driving straight into what had become enemy territory, territory which was now featuring thunder, the occasional streak of lightning and now the first hint of rain was hardly on the el-tee's favorite things to do list.

"Rain rain, go away, come again another day…"

"Shut up private," the lieutenant grunted, watching as Hawkins somehow managed to tie a red bandanna around his head with one hand while steering with the other. While Physon was dubious of the marine's levels of concentration, he couldn't fault his driving.

"This isn't going to do our sweep any favors," Physon murmured, cursing Romeo's lack of vehicles. Romeo 2 was in the hands of Sergeant Ventrallis, Romeo 3 was mainly being reserved for supplies and a Romeo 4 didn't even exist. He turned to look at Collie, the NCO's wild blonde hair already becoming damp.

"You got anything yet corporal?" the CO asked.

"Only the same thing I've had for three years," Collie murmured. "Diddly and screw all."

"That's two things," Hawkins murmured.

Physon ignored him. "You using night vision?"

"I am now," the corporal answered, flicking a switch on the binoculars.

"Alright," said Physon, shifting his gaze and doubting whether it would make much of a difference. "Let me know if you get-…"

"Sir, I've got something!"

The Warthog screeched to a halt, Physon grabbing on for dear life to avoid being catapulted through reinforced glass. Perhaps seatbelts weren't a bad idea…

"You have what now?" Hawkins asked.

"Just a sec," said Collie slowly, his British accent still distinguishable over yet another rumble of thunder, the sign of a large storm. Then again, they were all large. Hope had no major bodies of water and due to lack of tectonic activity, was a flat, featureless ball of rock. Water vapor could remain in the atmosphere for years before being released. However, as patient as the world's troposphere was, Physon's didn't even come close.

"Anything yet?" asked the lieutenant impatiently.

"Maybe…" said Collie slowly as he lowered the binoculars, adjusted the dial and raised them again. "I've switched to thermal. With any luck I…oh."

Slowly and silently, Collie handed the binoculars to Physon and upon raising them to his own eyes and following the Corporal's line of sight, Physon could understand why. Collie had found Romeo's proverbial Juliet- a burning Warthog with three bodies around it. Only one of them was illuminated fully…

"Jesus," murmured Physon as he slammed on his CH252 helmet and established a link through the binoculars' systems to his eyepiece's HUD, a nav-point appearing over the burning vehicle.

"Jesus what sir?" asked Hawkins. "Jesus Christ? Jesus wept? Jesus-…"

Hawkins let out a yell as Physon slammed his helmet down over his head. "Hawkins, follow that nav point and get us to the target ASAP!" he yelled. "I'll call in Romeo two and three. Collie, perform an ammunition check."

"Sir, yes sir!" both marines shouted, the promise of actions boosting their will. Physon, priming his M6C magnum sidearm, wished he could share their confidence. The Warthog was two miles out from the canyon and given its angle, had been heading _away _from the landform. It had been hit, and hard, the enemy possibly still nearby. As such, the ammo check, while a practicality, was also a necessity…

…he couldn't shake the feeling that bullets were going to fly before the day was over.

As the rain increased in intensity, thunder rolled…

…the dice went off the board.

* * *

**Settlement 01 ("Thunderville"), underground hanger (Zulu Base)**

**Planet Hope, Chi Mu System**

Despite Zulu Base being fifty meters below Hope's surface, the sound of the heavy rain could still be heard, making it one of the few instances that that Engineer Alan Ellison was grateful for spending such a large amount of his time underground. Little precipitation occurred on Hope, but each occasion in which the planet's bladder gave way stuck out in his mind like a sore thumb. True, there were usually warnings of an oncoming storm, but there was never any middle ground between not raining and bucketing. The results were drenched clothes, a shivering body and a cold for the next few weeks.

_Hell, this planet needs meteorologists, not cloak and dagger R&D _the engineer mused, tapping the side of his bench. He quickly stopped. It was a nervous habit he was getting into and the cancer sticks were bad enough, as the pile of nine in his ashtray, a tenth soon to join them, attested to. Taking a puff of said cancer stick, he leant towards the intercom.

"Alright, let's begin the field test." He paused, reflecting that he'd repeated the same words he'd uttered. He leant forward again, "and for God's sake, try to last more than five minutes this time!"

"Demanding results will not guarantee them sir."

Ellison remained at his desk, looking out over the hanger at the thing residing below, the rumbling sound signifying that testing had begun. Despite having worked on the damn thing for three years, he couldn't help but feel…engrossed, somehow. Maybe it was due to Hope itself. Maybe it was because the original designer was officially missing in action. Still, with nothing interesting occurring on the surface, this hanger was the resource his mind automatically turned to for excitement.

_Or maybe it's because it hasn't broken down yet, _Ellison mused, turning around to face his counterpart and giving an idle wave by way of a greeting.

"Doctor Robins," the engineer said calmly, albeit with a tone that hinted at something else "It's good to see you."

Robins answered in what Ellison assumed was the affirmative, having already started to drift off. Any normal person would have picked up the sarcasm in his voice within seconds. Still, an individual who worked for Section 3 of the Office of Naval Intelligence at the age of 87, having held his position for at least four decades and shipped down from the _Aeros _three years ago could hardly be accused of being "normal".

_Why's he still working for ONI anyway?_ Ellison wondered as he turned back to look over the hanger. _Why hasn't he retired and got to work on his time machine?_

In truth, the engineer was only half joking. Robins definitely looked and at times acted like a mad scientist, what with his white suit, a few wisps of equally white hair and large spectacles that Ellison doubted were necessary, considering the current level of technology in ocular laser surgery nowadays. Yet somehow, this…man had come to be the head of this little venture.

_Desperate times call for desperate measures I suppose…_

"Here's the latest results," said Robins, yanking back Ellison to the monotony of reality by tossing a file onto his desk.

"I'll get on them," Ellison grunted, lying through the skin of his teeth. He returned to looking back over the hanger, the exercise still going smoothly. He didn't have any particular love for the vehicle below, but when, or rather if it was deployed, he had no doubt it would be a sight to behold, especially considering-…

"Why Goliath anyway?" Robins asked suddenly.

"Pardon?"

"I asked why it's called Goliath," Robins repeated, actually sounding rational for once. "I mean, it's a pre-existing vehicle for starters that's already been designated a name in sync with conventional UNSC norms. So why bother?"

Ellison blinked. Robins could be many things, but cynical wasn't among them. And while he wanted to find out whether this was a good or a bad sign, he decided it was best to answer the scientist's question.

"I've never been fond of our 'animal farm' naming," the engineer murmured, toying with using the pod as an example but deciding to push the ugly dropship out of his mind. "Besides, Goliath is just a nickname. You know, big, brutish…just like the Goliath of ancient history."

"Right," sneered Robins. "And exceptionally weak against David as well."

"What?"

"Oh, nothing."

It was only at the last second that the engineer stopped himself from claiming that his forename was Alan rather than David, recognizing the metaphor at the last instant. As irritating at being on the losing end of a conversation was, it wasn't worth digging a hole even further so Robins could fire rocks from his slingshot from a more dominant position. Still, with the field test coming to a premature end, Ellison found the entire scenario somewhat academic.

"And David strikes again," Robins murmured. "Sometimes I wonder where he gets all those stones from."

_Jackass._

Then again, the stones were a good analogy really, all things considered. Or rather pebbles. Because while stones were easy to see, pebbles could get stuck in your shoes and could be impossible to find. Goliath was the only one of its kind on this planet and even after three years, they still couldn't get the damn thing back to working order. The Covenant had done a number on the vehicle in the final days of the Harvest Campaign and unless its original designer turned up, they weren't going to get a full readout of how it was meant to operate. Even with the company's three remaining Scorpions, there was only so much reference they could use for one of their variants.

_Well, if at first you don't succeed…well, whatever, _Ellison reflected bitterly. _I bet it's the spirits of these animals cursing us for inappropriate naming. I mean, the Wolverine doesn't look like a weasel for one thing and the Warthog _certainly _doesn't look like a pig. Maybe a puma I guess, but still-…_

"Ellison, are you listening to me?"

With a start, the engineer spun round, dropping his cigarette as he did so. He carefully squashed it with his boot as he met Robins's glare, not wanting another lecture on how he was wasting taxpayers' air.

"Pardon?" he asked, his mind still full of alternate names for the M12 LRV.

"I said that we'll schedule another test for fifteen hundred hours," repeated the scientist. "In the meantime, you get to clear up this-…"

"Fifteen hundred!" Ellison exclaimed. "That's over four hours from now! I-…"

"Yes, Ellison, _fifteen hundred_," Robins repeated. "Three pm, if that makes more sense to you."

"Doc, in case you didn't notice, a Covenant cruiser crash landed on this planet only two hours ago," said Ellison slowly. "And all things considered, it's only a matter of time before they-…"

"I am aware of this _private_," Robins snarled. "And let me assure you that I'm aware of the possible ramifications. However, that's no reason to rush into things. Even for you."

And with that, the scientist headed out. Just as well really. Ellison fingering his M6C magnum sidearm and toying with the idea of putting a .50 caliber, M225 12.7mmx40mm SAP-HE round in the scientist's skull was more than just a habit these days.

In truth, it had become more of a personal ambition.

* * *

**UNSC **_**Haven**_

**Status: Maintaining geo-stationary orbit around planet Hope, Chi Mu System**

There was a saying that anger was the essence of drama. If that were so, Captain Justin Sattler and Dr. Mina Harwood were both part of the greatest stage production in history.

"Damnit Sattler, are you trying to be obstinate! Or does it just come naturally to you!"

Given the pitch of the good doctor's voice, Sattler was glad that he was taking the message in his personal quarters as opposed to the ship's bridge. There were few individuals within this system that could yell at him without repercussions and unfortunately, the bitch was one of them.

"No, I'm not _trying_ to be obstinate," Sattler snarled, leaning forward on his desk. "I _am _being obstinate, because I'm being ordered around by a civilian who doesn't know the first thing about the rules of engagement."

Harwood chuckled. "That's the best comeback you can come up with? I've at least had the restraint not to point out how little you know about _my _field."

Sattler actually started to get up at that comment but resisted the urge to put words to mouth. Firstly, he was only talking to a hologram so none of the various methods of physical assault running through his mind would do any good. Secondly, he could tell that Harwood was trying to steer away the conversation from the topic he intended to debate.

Besides, the longer the argument went on, the better…

"Harwood, I don't give a hell about whatever it is you do on that ship," the captain lied. "All I care about is that you're refusing my requests for reinforcements to this system."

The hologram of Harwood sighed, leaning back in what Sattler supposed was a chair.

"Captain, surely you understand that one downed enemy battlecruiser does not present a serious threat," Harwood said slowly.

"That's debatable ma'am," Sattler answered, cursing himself for lapsing into using formalities. "We have no telling how many ground forces it can deploy and Major Howard is known for reacting to enemy movements, not making movements of his own."

"Which is a problem…why, exactly?" Harwood asked, raising an eyebrow. "If Covenant ground forces attack, it would be better to have a skilled defender than attacker, no?"

"But what about the ship itself? What if we can-…"

"Capture it? Justin, we have hundreds of pieces of Covenant weaponry and shielding equipment and have yet to mimic their tech. So even if we could hold this planet long enough to salvage the craft, how much difference would it make in the long run?"

Truth be told, Sattler didn't know. But even after a three year hiatus, he'd fought the S. long enough to appreciate how significantly Covenant ships outclassed their human counterparts. And with salvage opportunities few and far between, given that Covenant ship commanders were either blowing their enemies away to hell's seventh circle, or destroying their own ships so that their technology couldn't be retrieved, he couldn't help but relish the opportunity.

_Right…they just decided to give us a chance…_

It didn't seem likely that the Covenant were springing a trap or anything, at least by themselves, which made the fact that the battlecruiser had crash landed on the planet so _odd_. Why crash land on an enemy held world instead of…well, self destruction was guaranteed death, but holed up in a ship in enemy territory was the next best thing. Short sighted cowardice perhaps? Or something else?

Harwood's voice brought him back to reality; "…and while I understand the possibility of more of our own ships arriving, that's a possibility we can't alter. Cole and the rest of the navy are all that stands between the Covenant and the destruction of the Outer Colonies and-…"

Sattler tuned himself out, letting the doctor yak on. Even after three years of isolation, he didn't need a reminder of what was going on, didn't need to have his guilt prompted that he and two now destroyed ships had been tasked with shuttling marines to a barren world and left to rot after an unexplained change in battlegroup designation.

_FLEETCOM's losing its touch, _thought Sattler bitterly as he noticed that Harwood seemed to be at the end of her lecture. _And ONI for that matter._

"So while I agree on the need for evacuation of the planet's populace, I cannot condone diverting elements of the Navy to this planet, at least at this point in time."

"Fine, be like that," Sattler snarled. "But this is a military situation and-…"

"Which, as ONI's representative, I have control over. Not a position I relish, but one that I have to carry out. And if you want to selfishly risk thousands of lives on the off chance we can evacuate this planet _and_ salvage the Covenant ship in the process, then that's your prerogative. I however, have work to do."

And with that, she signed off.

Sattler blinked. That had been…abrupt. He'd never expected Harwood to do anything more subtle than simply yell and scream at his "impudence." And what was even worse, she actually made sense. He'd already made his own request for more ships, however desperate. But every ship at Hope meant one less ship available to defend the Outer Colonies. Did such means justify the end of securing Covenant tech?

_Damnit, I don't know. Maybe that's what separates me from the doc._

It was almost unfortunate really, the universal animosity between soldiers and scientists, the former looking down on the latter for not being able to field strip an assault rifle and the latter looking down on the former for not knowing the difference between relativity and quantum mechanics. Given that the Covenant seemed to provide the only linking of martial prowess, science and a dose of religious fanaticism to boot, perhaps such animosity was doomed to continue.

_And perhaps you prefer it like that _said a voice at the back of the ship commander's mind. Sattler didn't answer. There were certain perks that came with being top at the chain of command and one of those was that everyone had to follow your orders. A useful system of course, but one that lacked…challenges. And considering that Harwood was about the only person here who wasn't obliged to follow his orders, courtesy of her connections with ONI, he had to admit that he was...well, almost grateful.

_Wait, what? Did I just…_

"Yo 'capy, you listening to me?"

Under normal circumstances, Sattler would have deleted a few kilobytes from the newly appeared Ulysses for calling him "capy"-he couldn't shove or push the Ithacan wanabee, but he could still do the next best thing. Still, considering the train of thought he'd found himself on, he supposed he could make an exception. Besides, given the data that those kilobytes could contain, deletion was the last thing on his mind.

"Yeah, I'm listening," said Sattler absent mindedly, activating the holotank in the corner. "Did you get in?"

The AI grinned. "It wasn't easy, but I managed to launch my Trojan Horse. Pretty lax security overall. The _Aeros _could have certainly used Laocoön in this situation."

Sattler didn't know who Laocoön was and since he was probably from the same stories as Ulysses, he didn't particularly care either. All he cared about was whether his ploy of sending Ulysses into the _Aeros'_ via the communication link with Harwood had paid off. Sattler _knew _she was hiding something and while Ulysses had been designed for ship navigation, he was the only chance he had of finding out what.

"Anyway, I managed to find out a few tidbits of info," the AI continued. "Nothing really major, but still interesting…"

Sattler waved his hand for Ulysses to continue, leaning back in his chair and fighting his disappointment. Ulysses could be quirky, but he could still tell when he was being honest.

"I managed to obtain readings on the abnormal slipspace currents I pointed out a few hours ago. Coupled with the _Aeros_'s more sophisticated systems…well, I think you better see for yourself."

Sattler nodded, Ulysses' avatar being replaced a diagram of Hope and what looked like…

"A magnetic field?" the captain asked. "But Hope's core is inactive. How could it-…"

"Capy, the planet's _always _had a magnetic field," sighed the AI. "We don't know how, but as it's protecting people down there from UV, no-one's really questioned it. No, what you see here are slipspace currents around the planet, flowing in a way similar to a magnetic field."

Sattler watched as the piece of coding replaced the slipspace image with that of a metal bar, as if to take him back to high school science. And with diagrams showing how magnetic poles worked, it was déjà vu instantly.

"Think of Hope as one of these poles sir, except not having a counterpart," Ulysses began. The courses of the slipspace energy around the planet are moving akin to a magnetic field, Hope acting as a kind of…central pole."

Sattler suspected that went against every law of magnetism but remained focused. "What does this mean in practical terms?" he asked.

"It means that slipspace currents are operating a pattern similar to an arc, with Hope as the point of origin." explained Ulysses. "Something's changed over the last day, sir. I don't know when exactly, but Hope, or something on it is accelerating the slipstream drastically. Whatever the reasons, it's behind the phenomena I recorded earlier. They're moving faster than anything I've ever seen and if any ship received your request and chose to follow up on it, they could be here in a matter of hours rather than days."

"…wow."

Both human and AI knew that "wow" was an understatement, though only the organic gave a visible sign of appreciating it, rubbing his thumb against his fist in thought. He'd sent out every one of the _Haven_'s slipstream packages in a desperate attempt for more ships and in light of this information, it seemed that the gamble had been well played, not to mention the evacuation ships that Harwood had requested. Still, if human ships could arrive faster, no doubt Covenant ones could as well. True, there was no way to tell if the battlecruiser could summon reinforcements, but if it could…

_Well, I'll find out I guess. Nuking it isn't an option with the settlement so close and the clouds are so thick that I can't use an accurate MAC blast either._

Life was cruel sometimes. But signaling for Ulysses to move on to report what he'd learnt in his infiltration of the _Aeros_'s systems, he hoped that some worthwhile information might make life more appealing.

"Not all that much," the AI admitted, dashing the captain's hopes immediately. "Still, you remember that HEV dispatched yesterday? Apparently it was unsanctioned."

"What? How does that work?"

Ulysses shrugged. "I don't know. Granted, I'm not made for systems infiltration, but from what I can tell, there's no log of the dispatch, only that the station's HEV rack was rendered inoperable. I can only assume the ODSTs were sent down in Pelicans because of this. There's a log of that at least."

Sattler nodded, comprehending the information, realizing that, bar a likely manual launch of a HEV, the dispatch made sense. Through ONI a marine and Helljumper force was maintained on the station independent of his command, but he could still understand the logic. Drop troops in Thunderville so your foe couldn't see approaching craft. In the area that both it and the Covenant landed, the canyons could mask the approach of LRVs, unlike dropships coming from the sky.

_But what came down in the first place? And why be so secretive about it?_

The captain didn't know. Still, as Ulysses went on with his findings, he could take comfort in that at least the AI wasn't keeping his thoughts secret.

"The HEV rack isn't an isolated mystery," the piece of software continued. "I mean, the _Aeros _had a pretty poor architect to place it so far away from the troop quarters. Still, a place that _is _close to it is Lab Zero Nine.

"Anything on it?"

"A bit sir. The information concerning the lab and its projects is of the highest security level but I did manage to get some information, albeit precious little. In its log there are references to something called Project: Reaper and two codes are repeatedly given." The image changed again, showing two codes; _SR-005_ and _SK-018_.

"Ring any bells?" asked Sattler, already knowing the answer.

"No sir," said Ulysses. "It must be a black op. If you wanted the full story you'd have to ask Doctor Harwood or Doctor Clark. They're the only ones that have access to the lab and to those they choose to share the honor with."

"Well I definitely wouldn't be one of them, at least if Harwood is anything to go by," murmured Sattler bitterly. "What about this Clark character? You have access to the roster of the _Aeros _don't you?"

Ulysses nodded and performed a quick scan, his usual dark blue becoming a lighter tone, at least in the facial regions; "Sir…there doesn't seem to _be _a Dr Clark."

"What? Are you sure you're searching correctly?"

"Of course I am!" shouted Ulysses, as if bordering on hysteria. "There's definite reference to a Dr Clark in the protocols of the lab but no profile is given in the roster. It's as if he never existed!"

Sattler raised an eyebrow. Ulysses had done well, but had obviously overextended himself. And right now, the last thing he needed now was a faulty, possibly even Rampant AI. Not that Rampancy was supposed to happen to "dumb" AIs, the condition usually being caused by an over-accumulation of information that only "smart" AIs were capable of given the nature of their processor matrixes, but right now, taking chances was the last thing that Sattler wanted to do.

"Also, there's one more thing," said Ulysses eventually, displaying the same resolve his predecessor had in laying siege to a city for a decade. "I managed to get a peek at the station's transmission logs. Harwood's definitely requested recovery craft, specifically from Venatir, packages are being sent to someone else. A simple codename that's popped up in the recordings of a number of transmissions. A codename that's either misspelt, or highly irregular."

"Show me," grunted Sattler.

"Very well sir." Once again, Ulysses' image faded, replaced with a single word…

KEANCROS

* * *

**United Nations Space Command Priority Transmission (classified designation) **

**Encryption Code: Black**

**Public Key: file/excised access Omega**

**From: Dr. Mina Harwood, Office of Naval Intelligence Section 3 (civilian identification number classified)**

**To: Codename: KEANCROS**

**Subject: Changing Circumstances**

**Classification: RESTRICTED (BGX Directive)**

_/start file/_

_Keancros,_

_I don't know if you've received my last transmission yet (made on 12/29/34 at 1707 hours), but I can hope that your ship_ _is somewhere close to this star system. Under that impression I will cut to the chase._

_In the interests of maintaining confidentiality of Project: Reaper, I have denied all requests for reinforcements, though have taken the liability of requesting for evacuation craft (please see attached document for the specifics). However, the fact remains that the Covenant has indeed found Hope and whether this be by chance or design is irrelevant. Reaper's security is at stake and indeed, the security of Hope as a whole. _

_Please understand my situation Keancros. I didn't ask for this. I don't like deceiving Sattler, even if it's what I've been doing for the last three years. The subject is down on the surface and Kilo Squad is not responding or making any transmissions. Given all that has occurred, this could be for any number of reasons, most of them fatal. Right now, I feel that classification is irrelevant._ _We have over thousands of lives at stake here and the thought of sacrificing them for a lost cause is unthinkable. You're in luck in that I at least agree in restricting ships-there are far more important worlds out there. But any delay in getting the people off here is unacceptable. You dragged me into your world three years ago, but that doesn't mean I don't remember what life was like before it._

_Besides, there's something else you should be aware of._

_Something's up here. I'm no soldier and I never will be, but to my knowledge, a Covenant ship risking capture instead of self destructing is, as of yet, unheard of. The act of crash landing on an enemy held world demonstrates either poor tactical planning, or the hint of something deeper. And to be frank, I think it's the latter. The possibility of capturing a Covenant vessel aside, I think these accelerated slipspace readings (see secondary file) with Hope somehow as the focal point, speak for themselves._

_Something is going on here sir. Something deeper than we can comprehend. Something that I think prompted that Covenant ship to land. Something that only they know of._

_And if we don't act accordingly, we may find out what the hard way._

_/end file/ _

* * *

Mina Harwood was right. The slipstream was moving quickly. Her assumption that Keancros had already received her first transmission was also correct. But right now, not only would any estimates of the time of arrival be over-estimates, but any belief that he actually gave a damn was also misplaced.

Well, maybe that was a bit harsh. But still…

It was amusing really, how the blonde actually thought she was in control. Still, she'd given him unexpected information. True, he would have learnt about the slipstream currents anyway, but still, collaborating data never hurt. And her theory that the Covenant knew it too was also valid…

For now, Keancros would wait and see how this played out.

* * *

_A/N_

_I never got past chapter six in either of the previous versions. No particular reason, just how things worked out. Anyway, probably academic, but at least from here on out I can call the story original in that it's not re-posting edited chapters._

_(2011-08-05)_

_Corrected spelling, grammar and "Spectre" typo._


	7. First Strike

**Halo: Shadows of Hope**

**Chapter 7: First Strike**

**Individual: Unknown**

**Location: Alien artifact**

**Status: Unknown**

Elites...

Well, that was one name for the seven feet tall aliens that had entered the relic. "Split-chin," "split-jaw," "squid-head..." The intruder knew he was technically free to use any of them. And if it wasn't in his best interests to keep himself hidden from the group of Covenant that had just entered this relic, he might have actually used them before jumping into the fray, doing to the enemy what they did to his kind. And while he had little love for the latter species, his hatred of the former was still intense. Nine years of being fed information tended to do that.

_But how trustworthy is that information? _wondered the visitor, watching the Elites point their type-25 directed energy rifles in all directions but his own. _Why should I believe it?_

All in all, he didn't know, or at least was aware that he didn't possess any hard proof of what had apparently been transpiring over the last nine years. Still, given the presence of the enemies that he'd been educated about, he supposed he should believe it. Not only were armed and armoured aliens on a human world, but from what he could pick up from their limited banter, they didn't seem to like the fact that they were the second ones here. Or rather the third. Because this relic certainly hadn't been made by human hands and given the Elites' cautious manner of entry, not to mention the Prophet's logs, it hadn't been made by the Covenant either.

"Keep it tight..." murmured the red armoured Elite...or at least something like that. The visitor could appreciate the spirit of the words, if not their exact meaning. And in the spirit of deciding that it was best if he kept his presence unknown, the visitor began to move. On a walkway that overlooked the main entrance, he silently and swiftly moved further into the artifact, letting the split-lips take their time navigating the entrance hall, avoiding everything from rubble to gaping holes in the ground. The Prophet's log hadn't given an exact date as to how long this thing had been around, but however old it was, time had done a number on it regardless.

Time...it had become almost meaningless to him...

Allocating his resentment to his mind's documents folder, the visitor used his brain cells to hit alt-tab and get back to the here and now, namely that which while here, belonged to an era long before the present. Yet somehow, it didn't feel like it. The triangular architecture, the strange writing, the gray walls...it was as if...as if it wasn't _meant _to be ruined, as if this place was meant to be in pristine condition even after being exposed to Hope's elements. The visitor didn't know why, but it just felt _wrong _to come across this structure as a ruin, as if whoever had built it were meant to have the technology to keep it in pristine order even with the lights out.

_Maybe it's the Prophet's log..._thought the visitor to himself, jumping over a gap in the walkway and steadying his balance upon landing to avoid toppling off the side. _He spoke big about this place, but what if he assumed that it was still in tip-top shape?_

Letting out a small grimace under his visor, the visitor hopped down to the ground level, satisfied that he was deep enough in the structure to be outside the Elites' immediate range. He'd read the logs, he knew what this place could supposedly do-it was why he'd exited the Covenant ship and arrived here before the hoofed lizards. But with the lights indeed out in this place, the only light coming through holes in the ceiling, how could-...

"Greetings. How may I be of service?"

Spinning around to the source of the sound, the visitor found it was actually light that caught his attention. Even now sight remained his primary sense and as a small blue light emerged from the darkness, he was grateful for it. Because this thing...this spherical, metallic, floating _thing_ made no sound at all. And coming to meet him face to face, it was only until he spoke that the silence was broken.

"I see by your silence that you are surprised to see me," it (or was it "he?" Certainly the voice was masculine at least) began. "And I must admit, I am surprised to see you. Well, no matter. I am the Monitor of Installation G01, my designation being 042 Zealous Enigma. How may I be of service Reclaimer?"

* * *

**M12 LRV Warthog Romeo 1**

**Location: Plains north of Settlement 01 ("Thunderville")**

**Mission: Rescue/recover Orbital Drop Shock Troopers dispatched from **_**Aeros**_

Ryan Collie was cold, wet and that the ODST that his vehicle and Romeo 3 were pulling up beside was protected by fully enclosed battle armour was cold comfort, no pun intended. And while making puns or other simple jokes might have helped rectify this discrepancy, the corporal couldn't bring himself to do it. A burning Warthog, strange, rectangular weapons and three bodies, only one of which was still breathing, demanded some silence, especially-...

"Wow. Covies did a number on these guys."

Collie grunted. Apparently Jack Hawkins had a different line of thought.

"Ah, Private Chambers, welcome back to your god among mortals," said Physon as Romeo 3's medic climbed out from the side of her Warthog, Collie unable to tell whether the CO was being sarcastic or not. "Wish the weather was better."

That, at least, was genuine and all in all, the corporal couldn't disagree with it. And while he was no medic, he also agreed with Rachel Chambers's comments that working in the rain wasn't ideal circumstances and they should try to keep her patient as dry as possible. Fortunately this plan didn't involve Romeo 1's stooges, allowing Collie to follow Hawkins's example and lean against the vehicle, keeping the effects of the rain to a minimum.

"So, how long do you think this'll last?" the corporal's subordinate asked. "You know, the rain."

"From experience, as long as it takes for us to develop hyperthermia," murmured the NCO.

"Experience? But, it's never really rained like this be-..."

"Sarcasm, Jack. _Sarcasm_."

It was testament to the relationship between the two marines that they functioned like some cheap Christmas lights-a one way electrical system, where if one bulb failed, the entire system would go out. Collie knew, or had at least been assured by Physon that he was like Hawkins in many ways, albiet being the brighter bulb on the tree. And while Christmas had come and gone and such analogies were already losing their touch in the returning tides of monotony, it was fair to say that his bulb often jump started the newbie's.

_Wish we had some lights now..._thought Collie grimly, watching lighting strike somewhere to the east and wishing that he could have a fraction of the heat beside him. Taking off his helmet, he put it on the ground before him and toyed with how long it would take for the 'pasta dish' to fill up. Not a particularly constructive use of time, but with Physon not requiring his services, he didn't have anything better to do.

Hawkins however, had other ideas...

"I don't get it..." murmured the PFC, some of his voice lost to the roar of the wind. "What were these Helljumpers doing out here? And why'd they deploy in Thunderville rather than jump into Hell the old fashioned way?"

"I dunno," answered the corporal. "Maybe we can ask the guy when he wakes up."

"The guy," as Collie eloquently referred to him as, was currently hidden from sight, courtesy of a trio of regular marines huddled over him. Chambers was working her magic while her fellow soldiers provided illumination, courtesy of the flashlights attached to their MA5Bs. Physon however, was nowhere to be seen.

_That's odd. Where did he-..._

"Collie, get your arse off the ground and help me with this!"

_...go?_

Under normal circumstances, the corporal would have scrambled to his feet instantly, allowing himself to be at the lieutenant's beck and call. However, a combination of reluctance to expose himself to the elements and a desire to postpone a tongue lashing for taking it easy prompted Collie to rise as slowly as possible. And coming face to face with his superior, his ursine-like hair saturated with water, the corporal was able to rationalize that delaying the inevitable was a good idea.

"Having a nice shower?" the lieutenant sneered. "God knows this situation stinks enough already. I suppose a bit of hygiene would do you good."

"I'll say," Hawkins murmured.

While Collie was facing the bear, he at least had enough sense not to poke it in the eye. However, not only had Jack Hawkins managed to do that in two words, he'd managed to tread on the bear's paws also.

_This won't end well..._

"Hawkins, while our corporal and mutual friend might smell, there's at least the chance of his odour being removed from my presence," the CO sneered. "You however, are beyond redemption. So, since smell gravitates towards smell-..."

"I hardly think that's a law of physics."

"...you're on burial detail," concluded Physon. He gestured towards the two ODSTs who hadn't been as lucky as their comrade currently under Chambers's care. "Get them loaded in the back of Romeo 2."

Hawkins suddenly turned pale, and not only because of the low temperatures. "Wh...what?" he stammered. "You...you want me to...handle bodies?"

"Yes Hawkins, I want you to handle bodies," snapped Physon. "What, didn't they teach you how to do that at boot?"

"No sir. They taught me how to create dead bodies, not handle them."

Part of Collie wanted to joke that Hawkins had never created a dead body in his life. Part of him wanted to point out that black ops or not, the dead deserved more respect. However, the largest part of the NCO's psyche prompted him to keep quiet. Hawkins had suffered enough and it was probably best not to make Physon any angrier. So, with the PFC heading off to play the Grim Reaper, he waited for his own orders.

"Well, that'll put some spine into the youngling," said the lieutenant eventually. He turned to face Collie. "Now then. Help me with the radio will you? I need to get Romeo 2 to converge on our location."

Collie nodded, climbing into the passenger seat and working the frequencies while Physon took the radio proper. However, based on the 'quality' of the equipment D Company had been left with, he knew it would take some time. And deciding to make a pre-emptive strike, he looked up to his superior.

"So, how's the Helljumper doing?" the corporal asked.

Physon grunted. "Don't know. Don't particularly care either."

"What?" asked Collie, surprised, but only slightly. "Why don't you-..."  
"Collie, those Helljumpers serve the _Aeros_, not us," murmured Physon. "And unlike Hawkins, we both have the intelligence to appreciate that they were up to something when they landed this morning, something that pre-dated the arrival of the Covenant. So, hopefully the guy will live and fill us in. If not, well, it's no sweat off my back."

Collie remained silent. True, no-one would be sweating in this weather, but that didn't mean they had nothing to worry about. Unlike Physon, he genuinely wanted the Helljumper to live. However, he wanted _himself _to live even more. So instead of starting an argument, he continued working on the dials, to get Romeo 2 here and get a sit-rep. Because exposed to freezing water at best and a possible Covie return at worst...

...well, suffice to say, Ryan Collie didn't want to be out here any longer than necessary.

* * *

High in the sky, the elements howled. And slightly below, those howls were matched.

No...not howls. _Screams_. Screams between Heaven and Hell. Screams that matched those of the ones on the surface, screams that those between the two realms had caused. And unlike the vermin who would descend into the realm below, the angels of death would ascend when they met a far more glorious end.

But that was not now. Not even soon, all things considered. More screams were yet to come. Screams that, as before, would not just be their own. Screams that would be a mere introduction to the symphony that would reverberate around this planet.

And thus they ploughed through the storm...

* * *

**Individual: "Reclaimer"**

**Location: Alien artifact**

**Status: In conversation with unknown class of AI**

"Well? Is it done?"

"Of course Reclaimer. You expected otherwise?"

Remaining silent, the visitor, or "Reclaimer" as the floating orb insisted on calling him, reflected that he didn't really expect anything. He hadn't expected to find the Covenant on Hope. He hadn't expected to find an alien artifact that seemingly hadn't been built by the genocidal aliens. And he _certainly _hadn't expected to find some kind of alien AI that not only had the ability to communicate in his own language, but treated him like they somehow knew each other. But then again, expectations tended to make the ones who made them fall flat on their faces. If he'd had expectations, he probably wouldn't be in this possibly advantageous situation. And while he was playing his role as the "Reclaimer" on the fly, he had to admit that he'd done a pretty good job.

So far at least...

"I'm sorry that this facility does not have the capacity to generate more encapsulation charges," continued Zealous Enigma, or simply "Enigma" as the visitor had decided to name him for the sake of practicality. "While I have maintained this facility to the best of my ability, there was no intention of my makers to ever use it after it was abandoned, long before even the use of the array. Without any Sentinels to serve me, I'm afraid that this installation has succumbed to the elements and its recent emergence will only hasten the process."

The visitor nodded, having diverged from Enigma's lecture after the declaration that its pulse ability was no longer an option. None of this babble made much sense to him and inquiring about it would only serve to raise the orb's suspicions. At the least he hadn't been surprised that the "Reclaimer" wanted to stop the Covenant forces approaching a UNSC settlement south of this position, his disdain for the "interlopers" quite apparent. And thanks to this alien technology, two of the three Covenant groups heading towards it had been stopped in their tracks, if only temporarily. With lightning having come down from the sky, the hand of Man had become the hand of God.

The visitor smiled faintly. It was an appropriate analogy...

Still, if gods were meant to be benevolent, he had to admit that he didn't really fit the definition. Yes, he was buying the settlement time at the least, though the primary reason was to keep the Covenant and his former masters at each other's throats long enough for him to verify whether there was any truth to the Prophet's claims. No doubt the snake was in the know, but given his objectives...well, suffice to say, it caused the visitor to question his sanity.

_And what about my own sanity? _the Reclaimer wondered, once again feeling the bitter seed of doubt spread roots throughout his mind. _Am I doing the right thing? Should I even _be _here? Clearly this AI thinks I'm meant to be but..._

The visitor trailed off. Right and wrong...such concepts had gone out the airlock long ago. He had more important things to worry about right now and foremost among them was keeping himself in Enigma's good graces.

"All things considered, I'd say you haven't done a bad job with this place," said the Reclaimer eventually, deciding to appeal to whatever sense of ego the Monitor might have. "I mean, this place was abandoned, but-..."

"But not abandoned anymore," interrupted the AI.

"Pardon?"

"You are here," said the orb simply. "And unlike the interlopers moving their way through the halls, I can only assume that you're here with a purpose."

The visitor clenched his jaw, ignoring the pain spreading through his skin due to such a motion. The interlopers, or Elites as humans called them, were an issue he'd have to deal with, one that he couldn't have this Monitor aid him with either, what with lacking Sentinels and whatnot (whatever they were). Here in the control room, a vast cavern of a structure with a bridge leading to a series of terminals and pillars hanging from both the floor and ceiling, it was clear that he was in the centre of the installation and therefore as far away from the split-jaws as he could possibly be. Still, he had no ranged weaponry and if the Elites saw him...

...well, that would be interesting.

Still, what was even more interesting was this entire setup and more importantly, what it could do. So while the visitor was wary of the approaching aliens, he was far more interested in discovering whether this relic was worth his time. So, putting on a facade of interest that he hoped was conveyed even through his samurai-esque armour, he once again addressed the AI.

"Yes, you're right, I am here with a purpose," said the visitor smoothly. "But to do that, I'm afraid I need a run-down of this facility's systems, especially this installation's ultimate function. Its _true purpose_, as...another Reclaimer once referred to it as."

The orb rotated a few degrees to its side, looking at the new arrival in what appeared to be a quizzical manner.

"Its true purpose?" Enigma asked cautiously. "You wish to...use it?"

"Oh yes..." said the Reclaimer, a smile forming on his features. "Most definitely..."

* * *

**Plains north of Settlement 01 ("Thunderville")**

"Romeo Two, this is Romeo One. Please respond to this message and converge on our location. Co-ordinates as follows…"

Ryan Collie's words weren't lost to the howl of the wind, but in Physon's mind, they might as well have been. He'd been saying the same thing over and over for at least ten minutes and the results had never differed from the sacred trinity of radio silence-nip, nadda and zilch. Overall, the only problem with the analogy was that it was extremely unlikely that Romeo 2 was following radio silence and that the far more likely outcome was that Romeo 2 didn't exist anymore.

_Well, I guess that depends on how one defines existence…_thought the lieutenant bitterly, reflecting that any definition of his own existence right now would involve an obscene amount of H20. _If they were taken out by plasma or fuel rod cannons there might be nothing left, but if the weapons of a lower caliber, we might be able to mind some more bodies to…_

Shaking his head, the CO cut his train of thought. There were already two bodies in his close proximity and Hawkins covering them with traulupins couldn't hide that fact. And while surrounded by five other marines who were healthy apart from freezing didn't make him feel any better. If the Covenant had taken out the ODST Warthogs who'd been caught unawares, and a regular jarhead Warthog who'd known that a Covenant encounter was a distinct possibility, then what chance did his remaining RT members have?

_Very little. Still, hopefully that could change…_

For all his calculations and assessments of the situation, one factor, one nasty little piece of calculus that screwed up his algebra stood out to the lieutenant. "X," as he called the ODST, was waking up. And telling Chambers and her fellow car buddies to move aside, Physon resolved to square the situation. Because while he admittedly hadn't been trained to undertake suicide missions that involved jumping into what could be a literal Hell, he'd at least been on this planet far longer than the new arrival. So either he would help the lieutenant come to the end of his mathematical problem or he'd keep squaring "X" into infinity.

"So…" said the lieutenant slowly, looking down at the stirring and, despite his body suit, shivering specimen. "Since you've woken up and your morning shower had already been done for you, I'll ask if we can cut to the chase."

"Mo…morning?" the Helljumper asked. "It's…still morning?"

"Nah, it's actually past midday," piped up Chambers. She looked at her chronometer. "If you want the exact time, it's…"

Chambers trailed off, courtesy of a glare from her superior. This was his interrogation and he wasn't about to bring a doctor into this.

Hoping that he could sustain the glare and that water running down his face wouldn't ruin it, Physon returned his gaze to the ODST. His helmet had been cast to the side long ago as part of Chambers's treatment, but having ignored him up until this point, it was the first time the CO had got a look at the Helljumper. Curly black hair that was long overdue for a regulation shave, emerald eyes, some kind of curious look that reminded Physon of the ones Hope's people had given him when he first arrived, an accent that was like Collie's yet far less arrogant…all in all, the guy didn't seem like ODST material. And while Physon hadn't exactly been saddled up with the cream of the crop this past few years, he was at least willing to admit that Hawkins and Collie could do their jobs without landing their Warthog in flames.

_Figures, _thought the lieutenant bitterly. _Three years of lying around on a space station and he comes down here thinking he's ready for first contacts of the worst kind._

"So…" said the Helljumper eventually, breaking the ice that, at these temperatures, could literally form before long at this rate. "You here to rescue me?"

Physon grinned. Pleas for help gave him power. And he intended to use it.

"Technically, yes," began the lieutenant. "But before we get you back to Thunderville Sergeant Jefferson-…"

"What? How did you know-…"

"Symbols and nametags," interrupted Physon, pointing to three arrows on the ODST's left chestplate and nine letters on his right. "There may be water everywhere, but I'm not blind."

It was tempting to say that he wasn't deaf either, given that he could still hear Collie yakking on into the radio. However, that would take the conversation on a divergence and right now, while he wanted to get some answers ASAP, getting back to Thunderville was a desire that applied to that acronym as well.

"And since I'm not blind, I can also see that you're not exactly following your normal COA."

"COA?" asked the ODST. "What does-…"

"Course of action," interrupted Physon, not even bothering to wonder why he wouldn't know that. "You deployed via Pelicans rather than drop pods, you headed up this way even _before _the Covenant showed up and your vehicle was stockpiling weapons like I've never seen before. So until we get answers to these questions, we're not heading back to towels, soup and in your case, a bloody razor."

Even with the howling wind and rain pelting him in a manner that felt like hail, Physon felt all warm and fuzzy inside. Having been out of action for three years, the only battles he could fight were with words. And taking the weapon that Private Fry handed him, a large, rectangular and above all heavy…thing, he pressed his attack.

"Instead of rifles, pistols or anything like that, you and your dead buddies-…"

"Dead? Oh Jesus…"

"…were carrying this," concluded the lieutenant, not willing to let grief get in the way of business. "So, start talking."

It didn't surprise the marine that Jefferson didn't start talking immediately. He hadn't been trained in interrogation and considering that all Covenant prisoners yakked on about the same bullshit like a glitchy music file, he had no particular desire to. Humans however, were more complex. Complex in a way that smart individuals would collect their thoughts before divulging information to their interrogator (or in an effort to wait for a lawyer). So while Jefferson didn't seem to have "iron balls" or whatever other pieces of anatomy Helljumpers prided themselves on, he was at least smart enough to decide what he said before he said it.

"Since you're probably freezing your ass off and want to get back to a heater ASAP, I'll tell you what I'm allowed to tell you," said the ODST eventually. "Yes, my team and I were dispatched before the Covenant arrived. Yes, the Covenant threw a hydro-spanner in the works before we could reach our objective. And in regards to your weapons query, the rectangular rifle your subordinate is carrying is an EC-55. Not sure how it works, but it was meant to get the job done."

"And what job would that be?" asked the lieutenant, wanting some real information.

"Sorry, that's classified."

Physon blinked, and not just to get water out of his eyes. He'd thought he'd heard bullshit from Hawkins, but the sergeant had just taken the concept of verbal feces to a whole new level. How anyone could say so much without truly saying anything was an interesting question, but the more interesting question was what the hell had brought the ODSTs out here in the first place, not to mention their method of deployment and equipment. And as tempting as it was to get back to Thunderville, Physon wasn't leaving without getting these answers.

"Let me make myself perfectly clear…" the CO began, lighting flashing as if to reinforce his position of the proverbial Zeus. "Right now, my men and I are your only ticket back home. So-…"

"Lieutenant, you should listen-…"  
"No, you listen! I'm sick of-…"

What Physon would have said next was anyone's guess, though it was fair to say that the main options were either a dirty adjective or a lengthy description of what he was exactly sick of. What he wouldn't have been likely to say however, was…well, nothing. Because with Jefferson suddenly rising to his feet, grabbing the lieutenant's collar and holding up a finger, that was what he said.

"Listen…" whispered the ODST. "Listen closely…"

Part of Physon wanted to say "not bloody likely." Part of Physon wanted to call on Fry or Hawkins to restrain the Helljumper. But most of his mind's pieces told him to do what the NCO told him to do, realizing the seriousness in his voice. So he listened…listened to the howl of wind, the pitter-patter of rain, the howl of…of…

_What in the…?_

The CO stepped back, fingering his pistol as he did so. Somewhere, somehow, almost lost in the roar of wind, was something else. Something barely audible, yet distinct. Something that reminded him of the hell he'd left behind three years ago. A hell that involved screaming akin to a…

_Oh no…oh no…_

"Sir?" asked Chambers hesitantly. "What is it?"

Physon turned to answer, to convey the sound and what it meant. However, another sound beat him to it.

"Romeo Two, this is Romeo One. Please respond to this message and converge on our location. Co-ordinates as follows…"

Turning the other way, Physon saw Ryan Collie. The most immediate sound. The most immediate sight. And in a flash of green light and a scream of pain, the sight of a fully functional Warthog became one of a twisted piece of burning metal and human screams.

And to his horror, looking up through the sheets of rain, Physon saw that the Covenant Banshees above them screamed in reply.


	8. Rolling Thunder

**Shadows of Hope**

**Chapter 8: Rolling Thunder**

**Sangheili File**

**Location: Recently uncovered Forerunner relic**

**Mission: Investigate relic**

Prero 'Cleraomee had never been in a relic of the gods before. And if all of their relics were like this, then not stepping foot in another one ever again was hardly going to be a loss.

Flexing his mandibles, the sangheili silently berated himself for such thought, not to mention letting his mind wander. The mind was a frail thing and if it strayed off the path, one could lose it forever. He had his role to play and if that meant searching abandoned relics, then so be it.

_But still..._

Loosening his grip on his plasma rifle as idle thought took over, the Major Domo reflected that sending a File into this artefact was unnecessary at best and a waste of time at worst. While far from him to question the words of a Prophet, Devotion's decision still remained an overreaction. It might have been justified in a sense, given the loss of the relic three years ago, not to mention the inability of his fellow warriors to hold the artefacts on the human world in the Procyon System not long after that. But that was then and this was now. While one of those worlds seemed to be a source of barbarian pride in their ability to hold and the other possessing many clusters of human dwellings, this barren world possessed a single heretic settlement and if the monsters could take any pride in this piece of rock...well, clearly they were more insane than even the Hierarchs made them out to be.

_But insanity is subjective. And we're still here..._

Suffice to say, Devotion wasn't insane. Because as frustrating as going through a ruin was in light of that settlement's imminent obliteration, it at least served some purpose. So while he wouldn't be partaking in the spoils of victory, 'Cleraomee retightened his grip on his weapon and continued to head into the structure.

"Form up," murmured the Major Domo, noticing that some of his file were breaking formation. "We entered as one, we shall exit as one and we shall explore as one."

"That makes a change," murmured a Minor. "It's more than kig-yar or unggoy could accomplish..."

That, 'Cleraomee didn't doubt. Usually files had but one sangheili leading lesser species, but unlike the formations that Andra 'Serafomee would no doubt be using against the filthy abode to the south, this one hadn't been put together for conventional means. And if it _had _been conventional, no doubt the results wouldn't be. Unggoy would be tripping over the rubble, kig-yar would be looking for artefacts to steal and the end result would be a mess. That was the price of sending lesser creations to do a sangheili's work.

"Strange, isn't it?" continued the Minor.

"What is?"

"This. This structure. This...ruin."

There was a fine line between stating the facts and stating an opinion, especially when one integrated the two. And while 'Cleraomee hadn't been in command long enough to have observed such a thing, he had a feeling that it had just occurred.

"Do you have something to add to our search?" the Major Domo asked, turning to face his subordinate.

"No, Major, merely observation," answered the Minor candidly. "Observation that unlike the relics encountered three years ago, this one is...is..."

"Is a legacy of the gods and will be treated as such, regardless of appearance," 'Cleraomee snapped, yet still feeling identical thoughts. "So what if it has succumbed to the elements more than other artefacts? Form does not always follow function."

"And what _is _that function?"

Snarling, the Major clicked his mandibles. Far be it from him to question why he'd been sent in here, especially since it was unlikely that even the _Divine Crusader_'s Prophet knew. But now, thanks to some irritating questions, he'd become curious. Curious as to what this relic did, if anything and if so, how one got it to work. So curious, in fact, that he didn't even notice the figure on an upper level looking down on them.

"We are the sword, not the quill," 'Cleraomee stated, reciting an old proverb. "We are the blade, not the hand. We are the heart of the Covenant, not its mind, and-..."

The Major Domo trailed off. Curiosity was once again taking hold of him. Specifically a curiosity as to why his neck suddenly felt like it was on fire and why the ground was rushing up to meet him. Still, it was no matter. The curiosity left as soon as it arrived.

After all, even as your subordinates screamed and fired plasma to no effect, it was hard to be curious when you were dead.

* * *

**Romeo Reconnaissance Team**

**Location: Plains north of Settlement 01 ("Thunderville")**

**Status: Engaged with Covenant type-26 ground support aircraft**

_I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die…_

Shivering for reasons besides that of the pouring rain, Jack Hawkins didn't even hear Physon yelling at him to fire his weapon, nor even the symphony of gunfire that he had yet to add his own melody to. After all, what was the point? The sonata had reached its coda, firing wouldn't elevate the homophonic music to polyphonic status and all the marines out here would be dead before someone could yell for an encore. No…in the end, all that was left was to follow the monophonic music of the fact that he'd be dead within the next few minutes and there was nothing he could do to change that.

_Just like Collie…oh god, oh god…_

Hawkins wasn't even aware of slowly getting to his feet, exposing himself to the wind, rain and fire of plasma. It wasn't until Physon grabbed his wrist and pulled him down to the element of earth that he was brought out of the realm of classical elements into that of the modern ones of…well, whatever chemicals were involved in Chambers's M6C.

"Bloody hell Hawkins!" yelled the lieutenant, going to ground even lower than the PFC. "You trying to get yourself killed?"

Hawkins didn't answer. He just faced the ground. Not the most interesting view in the world, but anything was better than watching the trio of Covenant flyers buzzing around like flies ready to feast on a farm animal's carcass. Only in this case, they would be the ones who created the carcass in the first place.

"We're gonna die, we're gonna-…"

Physon hit him. And it _hurt_.

"Hawkins, let's face facts," snapped the lieutenant, rising from the cover of Jefferson's destroyed Warthog to let off a few rounds at the flying Banshees. "First fact is that these Covies are rotten shots or, more likely, it's hard for them to see through the rain. So as long as we're here-…"

Physon stopped talking. Having a private hit him back tended to do that. Also stopped Chambers from firing for that matter.

"Lieutenant, they're playing with us…" the PFC whispered. "What, you think it hasn't occurred for them to loop around the other side of this Warthog and fry us? You think their fuel rod cannons suddenly malfunctioned so we can't evaporate in a cloud of green mist? No, they're just playing with us. They're gonna shoot us, they're gonna kill us, they're gonna-…"

Hawkins stopped talking, though not for the expected reason of Physon continuing the slapping contest. Because with Fry's body now soaking in the rain, cooling the formerly burning holes in his torso, one tended to shut up…at least in speech. Because while Hawkins remained silent, his mind was abuzz with how as awful a death that was, it was at least a better way to go than Collie had.

_Collie…oh god, oh god…_

Three years. Jack Hawkins had been here for three long, boring years after narrowly missing out the fighting on Harvest and now here he was, thrown into the deep end. He knew that there was probably some kind of saying to describe hubris leading to disaster, but right now, he couldn't think about that. All he could think about was the matter of his imminent demise, his…

"Hey L.T., I think you just lost a man…"

Despite his panic and misery, Hawkins scowled. While he was going to die, he could at least hope to die after the Helljumper, currently leaning against the broken Warthog in a daze, still woozy from the same kind of attack that he'd experienced before. It was _his _fault that RRT was out here, it was _his _fault that Collie and Fry were dead and it was only fair that he die in as much pain and misery as…

…well, at least more than Private Lawson, currently lying beside Fry with a burnt out eye socket.

_Shit. We're going down fast. We're on a ship, and…and we're like rats, and…_

Hawkins's mind began shutting down, though he could still appreciate the metaphor. The Covenant could kill them easily, but were instead toying with them, darting around in the air above them to give their enemies the illusion that they could down their Banshees with their rifles, letting them live and die that didn't involve attacking from another angle or simply reduce them to radioactive particles. Hell, they'd even left Romeo 3's Warthog untouched. A mere ten meters away, but the space in-between was a killing ground, not to mention the precious seconds it would take to get the jeep up and running.

"Sir, we can't stay here!" Chambers yelled, popping back into cover and shoving what seemed to be her last clip into her M6C. "We're sitting ducks and-…"

"Chambers, shut up!" Physon yelled, firing all the while before crouching down alongside her as yet more of the Warthog's frame was reduced to a viscous liquid. "I know we can't stay here! But if we move, we-…"

"We can make a break for it, get back to Thunderville!" Chambers yelled, panic in her eyes that seemed a lighter brown than usual, in contrast to brown hair gone dark due to accumulated moisture. "They can't get all of us! We reach the Warthog and-…"

"And they kill us!" Hawkins yelled, so caught up in despair and rage that he didn't even bother reflecting on the irony that he agreed with Physon. "We get in that Warthog and we're dead! We're all _fucking dead!"_

"Oh shut it Hawkins, you've never been in combat before!" Chambers yelled, sounding more like a banshee than the fliers above.

"And you? What do you do apart from playing nurse? You're firing your pistol as if you think you could actually-…"

"Guys…this isn't making my head any better."

Hawkins blinked. Chambers blinked. And although Physon was an exception to the norm of physical motion to express surprise, his quiet murmurings nonetheless conveyed it. Because in the realm of heated debate in the context of imminent death by plasma, the last thing someone ever expected was an ODST complaining of a headache.

_Well, we didn't expect a Helljumper to be without a pod or balls of steel, so what else is new? _Hawkins wondered, his sense of frustration remaining unchanged, just shifting to someone else. Someone who seemed to have regained his bearing enough to shift further into cover as opposed to lying down where Physon had dropped him after the initial mad dash to take cover from the Banshees.

"The medic's right, we've got to get back to Thunderville…" said Jefferson slowly, his words coming out slightly slurred. "Clearly staying here isn't an option."

Hawkins scowled. Was the guy so out of it that he couldn't see that making a dash for the-…

"On the other hand, the private is right also," continued the sergeant. "The Warthog's a death trap. We make a dash for it, all the Banshees will have to do is wait for us to get in before firing."

...ok, so he wasn't a complete idiot. But he was certainly ignorant. Because Physon preferred solutions to problems than reiterations of them and Hawkins could see that he was about to make that abundantly clear.

"I see NCOs still like stating the obvious," Physon grunted, briefly popping up to remind the Banshees that their prey was still alive and capable of firing fruitlessly. "But what do you want us to do? All we've got are pistols and rifles and even if the weather was better, they're not enough to take down the Banshees. And even if we chip away at the boulder, they can put an end to it before we get past the first few grains."

The ODST nodded. "True. Luckily, the Covenant know this."

"Luckily?" Hawkins blurted out. "How in the name of Bloody Elisa is that-…"

"The Covies have been playing with us. Playing with us because they know that all we've got are pistols and rifles and therefore no means of harming them, let alone escaping. As such, we've given them a sense of security that, if I use this baby correctly, I might be able to shock them in more ways than one."

To his surprise, Hawkins could tell that Physon and Chambers weren't…surprised. He hadn't noticed the rectangular object the Helljumper had with him. Physon however, was another story.

"The EC-55?" the lieutenant asked. "It can down the Banshees?"

"Doubt it. Still, they won't be expecting a stream of electricity coming their way, so at the least, it might persuade them to back off a little. And in that time, if we're lucky, we can get to the Warthog and back to Thunderville."

Hawkins didn't know what he disliked the most-the mention of electricity which seemed all too similar to the flash of lightning that illuminated the remaining marines, or the key words of "if" and "lucky." Still, with a sudden dislike of dying popping into his mind, he was willing to push these dislikes to the back of his mind and follow Jefferson's lead.

Or Physon's. Even now, in this last ditch attempt, he was going to run the show.

"Alright sergeant, I'll let you work your magic," the lieutenant said, crouching down and checking his MA5B's ammunition counter as he did so. "You let off your weapon at will, though preferably when a Banshee's closest. When that happens, the rest of you follow my lead and sprint to the Warthog. However, hold your fire. We don't want the Banshees to notice us."

"And Jefferson sir?" Chambers asked hesitantly. "How does he join us?"

Hawkins winced. If the jarheads were in a room, that was the elephant in it, and not of the M312 HRV kind. He didn't have much love for the Helljumper, but that didn't stop basic human instinct taking over and prompting him to look out for his own kind.

"We come round to this wreck in the Warthog and if the sergeant's lucky, he can jump in and find some room. Any questions?"

Hawkins actually had a few, though he'd worked with Physon long enough to know that this was a situation where it was best to keep his mouth shut. Still, he was nonetheless tempted to go against common sense, especially since Jefferson was remaining silent. Did he even care that he was playing Peter Rabbit while the marines were taking on the roles of Flopsy, Mopsy and Cottontail? Or had some inner virtue come shining through at the last moment?

Following Physon's lead and edging to what used to be the wrecked Warthog's bumper, Hawkins didn't have time to think. Because the wails, the _screams _of the Banshees were coming closer and that meant the Jefferson's time to shine was nearing. And as a crackling sound ripped through the air, Physon yelling to move and slapping him on the shoulder immediately afterwards, the shining had begun.

_Well, time to run the meat grinder…_

Running through the sheets of water that plummeted down from the heavens, Hawkins kept his eyes firmly on the ground. Not only did this keep water out of them, but he could not, _would _not dare to look up at the air, to see whether the sergeant's gamble had paid off or whether he was running into a shooting gallery. As such, all that was left to do was keep-…

"Help…me…"

…running?

Skidding to a halt, Hawkins lost to the effects of low friction and toppled over, landing face first in soil that seemed to be well on its way to becoming mud. Not even bothering to remove the smears from his face, trusting in Mother Nature to do that for him, the PFC quickly began to rise to his feet. The voice he'd heard…he couldn't have really heard it, and all he could hear right now was the wailing of-…

"Help…me…"

Hawkins blinked. There was no mistaking what he heard. And as his gaze slowly shifted to the burning wreckage of Romeo 1, there was no mistaking what he saw either.

"Collie…"

When the Warthog Collie had been in had been consumed in a green explosion of radiation, Hawkins and his fellow marines had instantly sprinted for cover, all assuming, and with good reason, that the corporal had died in the blast. But despite crawling out from the wreckage with legs that didn't seem to work, despite steam emanating from his body as the rain evaporated from sizzling skin wrecked by heat, Ryan Collie was somehow still alive. And despite his horrific injuries, despite barely being able to move or even talk, the marine wanted to stay that way.

"Help me…please…help…"

**Bam!**

Hawkins jumped. And seeing Physon with a smoking assault rifle in one hand, Jefferson's now weaponless arm in the other (clearly the lieutenant had had a change of heart) and Collie's limp body with blood steadily streaming out from a hole in his forehead, he didn't jump a second time.

"El-Tee…?" Hawkins whispered, a chill running down his spine that replaced the one that had formerly applied to his whole body. "Did you…did you just…?"

"Perform a mercy killing?" Physon grunted. "Yeah, I did. Fight the Covies as long as I have and you get used to it."

Hawkins didn't say anything. There was nothing _to _say. As such, Physon was left to do the talking and dragging of both the enlisted soldiers, getting them over to the Warthog.

"Now, let's get moving before ah!"

Hawkins dived back into the dirt alongside Jefferson as Physon's body started dancing, riddled with a volley of plasma fire... Dived so hard in fact that his helmet rolled off his head. Still, that was more movement that Physon would be doing, his limp body lying in the dirt beside the running vehicle... And upon seeing such a sight, Hawkins felt his body go just as limp.

_Gonna die, gonna…_

"Come on Hawkins, _move!_"

Hawkins was barely aware of Chambers coming round from the side of the Warthog and shoving him into the driver's seat anymore than he was of Jefferson woozily manning the LAAG. And even when he _did _become aware, he still had trouble comprehending it. Because clearly Chambers, currently riding shotgun, had more faith in him than she should.

Regardless, he put his foot down on the accelerator.

* * *

**Settlement 01 ("Thunderville"), Zulu Base (exterior)**

**Planet Hope, Chi Mu System**

_Somewhere, over the rainbow, someday…something something…_

After three years of working in the most isolated part of the most isolated planet in the galaxy, Alan Ellison had found that idle thought and cancer sticks went hand in hand. Rain however, was something that was rarely present in the gathering of fingers and was certainly never in the mood to intertwine with them. So as the rain poured down, Ellison was content to let water be the sore thumb of the group and let himself be the fourth finger-good for nothing but decoration.

_Guess a rainbow could cure that…_

Or not. Because with the wind howling and the heavens crying, the chance of enough sunlight penetrating through the dark clouds to form a rainbow were somewhere between slim and nil. Which were at least better than his chances of getting Goliath online, but that was another story.

_Another story? _the engineer wondered, watching as some fellow jarheads sprinted for cover, only for one of them to fall into what was seemingly set to become mud._ Yeah right, it's all part of the same story. A poorly written, monotonous story, but the same story nonetheless._

Well, not entirely. At the least, the plot device of the Covenant had been thrown into Hope's mix, but as the same plot device had been recycled throughout human space over the last nine years, he couldn't say he was too fazed. Only a few scenarios existed as of this point in time, ranging from cracking alien technology and turning the tide of the war to being reduced to his constituent atoms. Either way, it was all out of his league.

_Just like Goliath…damnit, if I'm going to die, is it too much to ask that I get to-…_

"Hey Alan!"

…_use it?_

It didn't take long for the marine to bring his train of thought to stop and disembark at platform reality. Because as unpleasant an experience as this usually was, it was Robins who made it unpleasant. The girl running through the rain to the shelter he was currently seated at was another matter.

"Tara?" Ellison asked, flicking his cigarette into the rain as he did so. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing," the girl responded, seemingly ignorant of the curious stares from the marines around her. "I thought you were working on Goliath."

The engineer shifted a not so polished boot awkwardly, and not only because the cancer stick he'd tossed aside was somehow still burning. Ardo and Tara had known about Goliath for quite some time and the breach had yet to bite him in the balls, but Ellison knew that there were plenty of other body parts R&D could hit him.

_But you mentioned it clearly to Ardo this morning…_came the voice of the engineer's conscience. _Why so squeamish around Tara?_

All in all, Ellison didn't know. Just like he didn't know why he'd been feeling more…strange around his best friend's sister over the last few months, ever since she turned eighteen. For someone in his late twenties, it wasn't the most comfortable thought.

_Christ…I need another cigarette. Maybe if I…oh, better answer her first._

"I…am working," said the engineer awkwardly, answering the girl's earlier question.

"Uh-uh…" said Tara slowly, not believing a word of it and putting her hands on her hips to prove it. "'Course you are."

"It's my break, alright?" the marine snapped, beginning to wish he was still underground, Robins aside. "I notice that _you're _not doing anything right now."

"Course I am. I'm talking to you."

"And that's work?"

Tara didn't answer and for some reason, that bothered the engineer more than he knew it should have. Still, he had to admit, there was something pleasant about being defeated in wits by a friend. At the least, it took his mind off genocidal aliens and arrogant scientists.

"So where's Ardo?" the marine asked suddenly, knowing and not caring that it was a blatant attempt to change the subject.

"Sleeping," said Tara simply. "We both had a rough night and Riley took it out on him."

"Something happen?"

Now it was the girl's turn to look uneasy, shifting her foot in the same way the engineer had done with his own. "Nothing special. Just…a rough night."

After three years of working in the dark, both metaphorically and literally, Ellison could tell when he was being lied to. And while he was practically obliged to tell lies of his own, hearing them was another matter.

_Oh come on. People lie all the time. What's so bad about Tara telling you one?_

The marine didn't know. Maybe it was because he had no idea what the truth was. Maybe it was because he should have asked if something had happened this morning, back when he'd seen Ardo. Maybe it was because too many questions had been raised already, such as the Covenant landing on the planet and ODSTs deploying long before the aliens had even arrived. Or maybe it was time to exit the realm of maybe and instead focus on the realm of the here and now.

"So is this where you usually hang out?" Tara asked, looking around the cluster of pre-fab buildings surrounding them and the jarheads under their arches. "You know, where you do your cloak and dagger stuff?"

Ellison winced. Back in the realm of the here and now, and Tara had dragged him all the way. Truth be told, she was exactly right-this was indeed what amounted to the exterior of Zulu Base. While the existence of the base itself was no great secret (you couldn't just carve an underground hanger out of the earth and have no one notice), the entrance to it was another matter. Three years ago, someone like Tara wouldn't have been let within fifty feet of this area. But with security having become lax over the years and the reality of there being no secrets worth keeping, it wasn't all that difficult for a civilian to make it this far. And while the engineer suspected that Major Howard would seek to rectify that in the near future, the issue of new arrivals would have to be dealt with first…provided the people of Hope survived that long.

"Well…if I _was _doing cloak and dagger stuff, I'm afraid I wouldn't be at liberty to divulge where the two are kept," said the marine slowly, wanting to change the subject again, but this time not make his desire so obvious. "Secrets and all that."

"Ah, right," Tara grinned. "Bet you love that. Bet that's why you even became an engineer in the first place."

"What?"

It was clear that the girl realized that she'd crossed some previously invisible line. Or rather, a line that until five seconds ago, hadn't even existed. But regardless of how clear or murky the situation was, Ellison appreciated none of it. All he appreciated was what Tara had said, and how utterly wrong it was.

"You think I _like_ this?" asked the marine slowly. "You think I _wanted _to spend three years of my life on this dirt hole? You think I _enjoy _working on something that'll never work? This isn't important Tara! I'm only doing this because apart from three Scorpion tanks, there isn't a single piece of heavy armor on this planet and there's nothing else to develop! Oh yes, being an engineer of _course _means that I _want _to do this!"

Ellison knew that Tara could take the route of grief or the route of anger in regards to responding to his outburst. And with fire in her eyes that he hadn't seen before, it was clear that the former option had been chosen.

"You didn't want this?" the teen whispered. "What, after three years of being friends, there's _nothing _here you want?"

Ellison sighed. He wasn't used to giving outbursts. Certainly not to Tara at least.

"Tara, I won't deny that I miss my home," said the engineer slowly. "I miss Reach. I miss the mountains, its valleys, the way Turul and Csodaszarvas cast their light…"

"Sounds...nice," said the girl slowly, her tone betraying her jealousy.

"But I don't miss the life I had there," finished the engineer. "I spent one year involved in a…program. Saw a few things and next thing I know, I'm an engineer in an organization I had no interest with previously."

Tara blinked. "You were…conscripted?"

Ellison shrugged. "Headhunted, is the correct term. I wouldn't say I had no choice, but with that…program fighting aliens instead of Innies, there was a lot of potential dirt I could spread in regards to its original purpose-a purpose that I'll admit probably isn't all that glamorous what with the need for unity in these times. But yeah. Ever wondered why I got on with you and Ardo so well?"

Tara remained silent for awhile, leaving only the song of rain and wind. And even as she hugged him, that song continued.

"No…" the girl whispered. "I didn't wonder."

It took one second for Alan Ellison to realize that was a good thing. It took him another to hear his radio crackle. And one second after that, Robins's voice broke the perfection more efficiently than even the Covenant could.

Goliath beckoned.

* * *

**Romeo Reconnaissance Team**

**Location: Plains north of Settlement 01 ("Thunderville")**

**Status: Engaged with Covenant type-26 ground support aircraft**

"Major Howard, do you read? Howard? Howard!"

There was probably some kind of formality that directed enlisted soldiers to address COs by rank rather than by name, a formality that Rachel Chambers knew that she was breeching. However, being pursued by a flight of Banshees tended to put formality on the backburner…supposedly. Because while the medic had never been pursued by the Covenant's standard ground assault aircraft before, and knew there was a strong chance she never would be again, she'd been in this bandwagon of death long enough to guess what kind of norms existed in this kind of situation.

"Major Howard, do you read? Major? Major, do you ah!"

Apparently Hawkins driving into potholes was a norm as well.

"Well Chambers?" asked the marine. "Got Howard on the line yet?"

Biting back a retort, the medic decided not to answer that question. Even if she had, it might have been for nothing. Couple the sound of the engines of human and alien vehicles, howling wind and the sound of plasma, fuel rod and LAAG fire, it was fair to say that conversation wasn't at an optimum.

In a sense, that was a good thing. It gave Chambers time to think. Or rather, reflect…

Collie…Fry…Lawson…Physon…four marines killed in a manner of minutes. Four men dead and she hadn't been able to do a damn thing to save them. Plasma cannons, fuel rod cannons, even SAP rounds…what good was 26th century medical expertise to all that? What was even the point of fleeing? It was impossible to tell how far it was to Thunderville, or even whether they were headed in the right direction, but chances were that she, Hawkins and the Helljumper would meet the same fate of their comrades long before they made it. And as a cloud of green mist sprung up from the saturated soil, vaporizing both earth and water, it appeared that the first bell had been struck.

_Gonna die, gonna die, gonna…_

"Damnit Chambers, get Howard on will ya?" shouted Hawkins, both sounding and looking like a madman. He was clearly just as stressed as her, only the source of beratement had been alternated. Chances were there wouldn't be another swap.

_Gonna die, gonna die, gonna…_

"Turn the lights off!"

…_what?_

"What? What you on about?"

As catatonic as she'd become, Chambers could still appreciate that she and Hawkins had asked the same thing, only the PFC had said it out loud. And it was just as well too, considering that it was Jefferson that had said it.

"Turn the lights off," the ODST repeated. "Shut them down, I'll stop firing and-…"

"Stop firing! Are you out of your-…"

"The LAAG won't keep us alive and it can only prolong the inevitable for so long!" the ODST snapped, his head facing one way and LAAG rounds heading in the other. "Turn off the lights, I'll cut out the muzzle flashes and the only way the Covenant will be able to follow us is through sound!"

"…that'll work?"

No answer was forthcoming from the NCO and Chambers couldn't blame him. Not only was the plan desperate, but looking at his hagged features, visible even through the sheets of rain, Chambers could tell that he'd seen better days. And while Hawkins decided to follow his advice and make night even further from day, that was still no guarantee they'd get to see the real thing.

Daylight…it almost seemed like a dream…

Ignoring the shivers running through her body, Chambers risked another glance back across the plains between Thunderville and the Covenant ship, well aware that she was about as far away as possible from a dream as it was possible to be. Still, even as blue and green light illuminated the landscape, not to mention taking a few chunks out of it, she had to admit that the nightmare she and her comrades were in was at least being mitigated. With the Warthog providing no illumination whatsoever, the Banshees were essentially firing blind.

_Maybe we won't die, maybe we won't die, maybe we…_

"Romeo…team…that you…respond…"

Chambers blinked. Still clutching the wheel like a bat out of Hell (well, if bats could drive that was), Hawkins wasn't the source of the faint, static filled words. And since it sure as hell wasn't Jefferson, that only left one option…

"Major Howard?" the medic asked, fiddling with the radio's frequency. "Major Howard is that you?"

"Romeo…Team…please respond…over…"

"_Damnit Howard, pick up the fucking chatter!"_

At that point in time, Chambers didn't care that she'd essentially given a superior lip or that she'd defied common knowledge that no-one on this rock actually possessed a chatter. All the marine cared about right now was that dying was no longer a guarantee and getting in touch with the commander of what amounted to an armored human force seemed like the best way to ensure that she didn't go the same way as those she failed to save. So while her hands were more suited to organic problems than technical ones, she somehow managed to cut through the static and get in contact with Thunderville.

"Romeo Team, is that you?" the major asked. "What's your status?"

"FUBAR sir," murmured Chambers, bending down towards the radio as a stream of plasma came overhead. "The lieutenant's dead, we've only got one Warthog and there's a flight of Banshees on our tail. We're currently heading back to Thunderville."

"What? You're leading the Covenant here? What the hell are you-…"

"Sir, the Covenant knew we were here as soon as that battlecruiser passed overhead! They're gonna attack sooner or later and the only choice you have to make is whether you'll be short a few marines and a Warthog when they do!"

The wind howled, the rain poured and the primary line of thought in the medic's mind was that if she was on a highway to Hell, at least Hell would be a lot warmer. Because with no response on Howard's end, thinking about the possibility they were going to be left high and dry (definitely a literal possibility in the current meteorological conditions) wasn't something she wanted to think about. Her comrades…her _friends _had died horribly and Chambers was in no mood to follow suit, especially since-…

"Alright Romeo, keep pumping the hydrogen," crackled the major's voice. "I'll have a surprise ready by the time you arrive."

"…right sir," murmured the medic. "Thank you."

Letting out a yelp as another cloud of green mist appeared near the Warthog, Chambers briefly pondered how moronic it was to call prepping a response a "surprise."

Of course, questioning good fortune would be even more so.

* * *

The wind howled. The Banshees screamed. And yet still the prey eluded both.

It was indicative of the entire war really-the humans had already lost. And yet still they continued to defy the inevitable. Still they continued to flee in the vain hope of finding sanctuary. Still they sought to alter the status quo.

No matter. They had failed to do so. And the fate of the frightened animals below them would be no different. All that was left was to determine how far the road they'd travelled down was.

With the prey fleeing down a hill to a squalid settlement, it suddenly became apparent to the hunters that they'd travelled much further than they thought. So far, in fact, that they'd entered the belly of the beast. A belly that immediately began the process of digestion, a swarm of missiles acting as enzymes.

Screaming and howling at the treachery and cowardice of these base creatures, the trio of fliers sought to evade the projectiles, their exhaust polluting the air as much as the ones who fired them desecrated the earth. They'd seen these projectiles, these "Argents" used before, simply part of a wide arsenal that proved ineffective, especially when mounted on custom made launchers as opposed to the usual vehicles involved. However, while ineffective against the greater whole, the individual was another matter. So while the Covenant at whole was in no danger from the vermin's belly, the crumbs of that greater whole were another matter.

In an instant of fire and rage, two of the three crumbs were incinerated.

Avoiding both the projectiles and its fellow morsels that had been consumed by them, the last flyer began heading up the proverbial esophagus. The pilot knew that he and his brethren had paid a heavy price for their pride, knew that they should have eradicated all the monsters when they had the chance instead of toying with them. Both lives and honor had been lost and the sangheili knew that neither could be recovered. Still, he would return. And that brought him some comfort.

In an instant, the belly of humanity had devoured the entrée.

Whether it could handle the approaching main course, one composed of most of the _Divine Crusader_'s forces, was another matter…


	9. Under the Stormy Sky

.

**Halo: Shadows of Hope**

**Chapter 9: Under the Stormy Sky**

**UNSC frigate **_**Wild Endeavour**_

**Status: En route to planet Hope, Chi Mu System**

Repetition, repetition, repetition...

"Repetition..." there was that word again. A word that was often used identically to what it implied. It took repetition to get through the Pillars of Loki multiple times, reaching the other side without a scratch. It took repetition to get used to the physics of MJOLNIR armour, allowing one's movements to become refined. And even after seventeen years of handling the weapon, Green 3 knew that repeating the process of fieldstripping a MA5B ICWS was as worthwhile now as it was back when she couldn't even fire it without falling on her backside. And looking around at the rest of Green Team, effectively mimicking her actions for both assault rifles and pistols, it was clear that she was not alone.

Not that it would have mattered if she was of course.

"Magazine size, sixty rounds," Spartan-093 whispered, inserting said magazine into the rifle's stock. "Seven point two millimetre full metal jacket, gas operated rotating bolt..."

Green 3 trailed off. It was one thing to appreciate the worth of such an exercise, but it was another to actually enjoy it. And when compared to the intense intricacy of rigging an explosive, or to simply lie back and experience the tranquillity of Emerald Cove, fieldstripping an anachronism of an assault rifle didn't exactly rate highly. And getting to her feet, watching Green Leader walk by with an M90 shotgun in his hands, the possibility was raised that she wasn't the only one who felt this way.

"This is why we're not meant to fight in space," Spartan-029 murmured, pacing back and forth as his teammates went over what was effectively a ritual.

"Pardon?"

"The waiting," Green Leader intoned, shifting his polarized gaze to his fellow squad member. "Fighting in vacuum at the mercy of physics is bad enough. But to be doing _nothing _in it..."

"Got any better ideas?" Green 3 asked, nodding slightly to where Green 2 and 4 were in silent conversation, -039 lying against the wall of the armoury in solitude. "At least with nothing we have the ability to make something out of it and..."

The explosives expert trailed off. Rationalization wasn't her strong suit. Sure, acting rationally was, but that was something else altogether...

"I'm not complaining," murmured -029, remaining on his feet but following Green 5 and placing metal against metal. "It isn't the first time we've had to be cooped up in a floating coffin and unless something miraculous happens, it won't be the last."

Green 3 remained silent, years of mental as well as physical training preventing her from entertaining the idea of the war with the Covenant being over. Her role...the Spartan-IIs' role, if such a word could really be applied, was not to question the facts, but deal with them. And right now, the fact remained that they were a long way from the fourth planet of the Chi Mu System, but not nearly far enough away that it was worth going into cryo for. So right now, all Green Team could do was sit...or rather _stand_ back and wait to rendezvous with destiny. Or fate. In a universe where life and death were often outside the grasp of an individual, what were once two sides of the same coin had become like the norm of human currency and merged into a single entity.

Heads or tails...even now, Green 3 wondered what would have happened if she'd chosen the wrong side...

Still, fixing her attentions on her M6D, the Spartan-II could at least take solace in that she defiantly _was _on the right side of the outdated copper. And while reciting everything from a twelve round clip to the principle of short recoil operation brought her considerably less solace, Green 3 knew that she was at least spending her time as effectively as possible. Because with Green Team in the dark as to what exactly they'd be facing on Hope, a darkness that extended to the entirety of the _Wild Endeavou_r's crewas far as she could tell, it was difficult to gauge what was the optimal S.O.P. And with-...

"Attention crew, this is the commander speaking. We will be entering the Chi Mu System in about thirty minutes. All hands report to stations and await further orders."

Green 3 didn't blink, stop short or give any physical indication of surprise, but having suddenly ceased reciting the M6D's rate of fire, an observant individual might have noticed the closest thing a physically enhanced super soldier could feel. But with Green Leader suddenly stopping fiddling with his shotgun and the rest of the team members being broken out of lethargy, Green 3 was the least of their concerns.

"We're that close already?" -030 asked, her question both rhetorical and direct. "I thought we were still hours off."

Green Leader sighed. "Space...it's unpredictable. Still, if it's worked in our favour, we shouldn't complain."

Green 3 wanted to point out that no-one was complaining and given Green 5's sudden twist of his head to his commander, it was clear that he wanted to say something similar as well. Still, this wasn't the time to be questioning good fortune, though -093 couldn't help but wonder. Travelling through a realm of seven dimensions wasn't exactly..._exact _science, but for a jump as short as the one the frigate had to make, the chance of miscalculation were still pretty slim. And yet _Wild Endeavour _had travelled quickly...just about as quick as the slipspace package. And if a human ship could travel this fast, what was to stop more Covenant ships arriving at the system, their already incredible speed supplemented by...well, whatever was supplementing slipspace travel, if at all.

_What if it's like Sargurine already? _Green 3 wondered, sensing the seeds of doubt within her blossoming. _What if Hope's already fallen? What if we're going to emerge into a slaughter. What if-..."_

"Hey, you coming?"

Spartan-093 blinked. And although Green Leader couldn't have possibly seen her action, courtesy of her polarized visor, that did nothing to stop her embarrassment. Green Team wasn't part of the official crew of the _Wild Endeavour_, but Commander Ling had ordered all hands to their stations. And in the event of a planet being under attack by the Covenant, that meant the Spartan-IIs would be heading to the HEV rack and dropping feet first into Hell with their lesser armoured, but not less courageous, ODST brethren. A Hell that Green 3 was still far away from by letting her thoughts overcome her and temporarily strand her in the purgatory of the armoury.

"Coming," she murmured, following her four fellow Spartans. "Nothing to keep me here."

There was no response. After all, there was no need for one. After all, a starship wasn't Green Team's home...

...the battlefield was.

* * *

**Chi Mu System, Settlement 01 ("Thunderville")**

**Planet Hope**

Hell was apparently a realm of fire and brimstone. And if Hell really did exist, Ardo Turner wished he was in it.

In the unlikely event that the miner had expressed such a desire out loud, and the even unlikelier event that someone heard him do so, such comments might have come across as odd. For starters, it could have well been argued that he was in Hell now, crouched behind a barricade on the outskirts of Thunderville as bullets and plasma shot back and forth through the saturated air. And if one was inclined to believe that the place where naughty people who didn't believe in antiquated beliefs did indeed exist, then surely the material world, no matter how grim, was preferable. But then again, not only were such people often located on decrepit worlds such as Gilgamesh, but such people had no idea what it was like to be absolutely freezing.

So as bad as things were right now, Ardo wished he was in Hell. At least there it might have been warmer.

"Hey pal, you gonna shoot or what?" came a voice from the dark.

"Shoot what pal?" the miner murmured, finding the silhouette of a marine blazing away with his assault rifle and as far as he could tell, hitting nothing. "Sides, you gave me a shotgun so I can't really take your role of sharpshooter can I?"

No answer was forthcoming and even with the possibility that a green ball of plasma shooting overhead might have had something to do with it, Ardo didn't give it much thought. With rain coming from directly above, plasma coming from slightly above, albiet diagonally and everything but the kitchen sink being shot at where said plasma was coming from, the miner knew his place. Sit down, shut up and hope that he didn't have to use the firearm that he'd been entrusted with.

And, of course, hope that Tara would have enough sense to realize that her dinky pistol wasn't going to hit anything either.

With a rumble of thunder drowning out what sounded like a tank shell hitting its target(s), Ardo reflected on the events of the past hour. One second he'd been catching up on much needed sleep, dreaming of ways to get back at Riley for blaming him for events that were well out of his control. The next, he was lying in bed wide awake, listening to hammering on the door that was defiantly not due to rain. And having gone through the ordeal of getting up well before he cared for, his only reward was a pair of jarheads who had to be younger than he was telling him that he was effectively being drafted and had to report to "the front."

Out of spite and curiosity, Ardo had asked what happened if he refused. The answer wasn't one he'd enjoyed.

Next thing he knew, the miner turned soldier had been planted behind a hastily erected barricade near the well established entry/exit point that the UNSC's finest had set up three years ago. In the midst of hurried mobilization, the rumour mill had worked overtime, allowing Ardo to piece together what had happened. Apparently a single Warthog carrying the remaining members of a reconnaissance team had just rolled in with a group of Covenant fighters in hot pursuit. And while most of the flyers had been taken down, it hadn't taken long for the powers that be to realize that the flyers were just the tip of the iceberg. And while that iceberg had currently taken up position on the top of the slope north of Thunderville, there was no telling when it might melt and flood those who sought warmth. Preferably not of the plasma kind that made your skin boil.

"Get some! Come and get some!"

Ardo sighed. It had started again.

It was impossible to see through the darkness that had beset Thunderville and if the 31st had any night vision or thermal goggles, they weren't going to spare them on a lowly civilian like himself. Still, with all the gunfire being sent towards the aliens, some of which were tracer rounds, he was able to make out the silhouettes of the latest wave of Covenant attackers, surging down the hill towards the defenders. And with the advantage of height and distance lost to the aliens, not even the dark could save them from being torn to pieces by bullets and, courtesy of the company's three Scorpions, tank shells.

"They're still charging?" Tara whispered, crouching beside her brother at his measly piece of cover. "Man they're brave..."

Ardo grunted, agreeing with his sister entirely if one replaced the word "brave" with "savage" or "stupid." Bravery had many forms, but he doubted that repeating the same tactic over and over was one of them.

_And you would know this how, exactly?_

Ignoring his conscience and the sudden shameful realization that he hadn't even bothered to ask whether his sister was alright, the miner carried out a quick visual sweep of the slope in front of him and the two types of silhouette coming down it. From what he remembered from his conversations with Ellison, one of the types of aliens coming down were called "Grunts" and the other type "Jackals" or "Skirmishers," but he couldn't remember which was which. Still, the smaller ones were always the first to fall, their stubby bodies torn apart by gunfire, tank shells or at times, by the methane packs they bore. The taller, stockier ones were more resilient, their shields severely reducing the effectiveness of rounds being sent directly at them. However, these shields were less effective at stopping rounds coming from an angle and still useless against the might of the Scorpions. So while they were always the last ones standing, they too fell down into the saturated soil, dead or dying, never even within range for Ardo to use his shotgun effectively.

Despite the circumstances, despite the knowledge that his circumstances could change in an instant, Ardo cracked a smile. Maybe Hell wasn't on top of his travel list. After all, all he had to do was take cover, let the professionals do their work and-

"Hey, watch it!"

With the darkness as dense within Thunderville as it was without, Ardo didn't know what to watch, who to watch or where to watch. With that in mind, and some idiot tripping over him, to say that irritation coursed through him was an understatement. And as humorous as it was seeing the idiot's face smeared with proverbial egg and literal mud, that didn't stop the miner from expressing his mind.

"Watch it?" Ardo asked incredulously, watching as the kid tried to retrieve both the assault rifle he was carrying as well as his dignity. "You were the one running around!"

The jarhead (defiantly one, as his helmet was missing for some reason) opened his mouth to speak, but didn't get anything out. Or, if he did, it was all for nothing as a cloud of green missed appeared about ten meters in front of Thunderville's first and only line of defence.

"Eeek!" Tara let out a cry, diving for cover. Ardo felt inclined to join her.

"Banshees," the marine murmured, either to himself or what looked like a medic running up to him from the way he'd came from. "They've still got Banshees..."

Given the grim look on both the marines' faces, Ardo supposed that was a bad thing. And having gotten used to the suicidal tactics of the alien invaders so far, he wasn't that eager for things to change.

"It isn't that bad is it?" asked the miner cautiously. "I mean, the aliens seem content on letting us play shooting gallery but-..."

"Which we're not complaining about, but we still have to add to it," interrupted the medic, seemingly talking to both Ardo and her comrade. "Come on Hawkins, we've got to move. Now."

"Right..." said the one called Hawkins slowly, sweeping some saturated hair from his eyes as if in a daze. "Let's go."

Watching the two soldiers fade into the darkness as they headed to the front's western section, Ardo realized that Ellison was defiantly the exception rather than the rule when it came to UNSCMC conversational abilities. Then again, with the gunfire as loud as ever, only thunder drowning it out, he wasn't complaining any more than Hawkins and his war buddy had.

Putting one hand on Tara's shoulder and another on the weapon he hoped he wouldn't have to use, Ardo Turner could only hope that he wouldn't find a reason to complain either.

* * *

_**Phoenix**_**-class colony ship **_**Haven**_

**Geo-stationary orbit around Planet Hope**

_Geez mum...and you said that table tops weren't worth it._

Sattler knew that now wasn't the time to be snarky, nor was it the time to think of family members that had been reduced to slag along with the rest of Biko. But looking at the holographic image of Thunderville and the green and purple blips around it, he couldn't help but be reminded of the war games he used to play as a kid. True, the holograms lacked the full range of functions he had right now, but they were responsive, not to mention outright superior to the physical figures that some oldies insisted on using. Somewhere, in the depths of his mind, he felt that his childhood activities had been justified.

And in another part, he felt guilt. Because in war games, not only were your men directly under your control, but you could spend their lives without a second thought. Right now though...well, not only were his blips not under his control, but their lives were being spent without him having any control whatsoever. And while the UNSC forces were rolling D12s on a seemingly regular basis, the Covenant couldn't roll snake eyes forever.

"Latest sit-rep from Major Howard," came the voice of one of the captain's bridge officers. "Situation hasn't changed, xeno forces are continually charging his front lines and-..."

Sattler blocked the voice off, not needing a summary of what the purple blips were repeatedly doing. It was cold comfort at best that the aliens were seemingly content with taking on the role of turkeys-not only did they have the numbers to keep laying the proverbial eggs, but nine years of fighting the aliens had taught the CO that they were anything but stupid. And while Hope had had a good run so far, what with the battlecruiser being crippled and deciding to land, Sattler wasn't willing to let simple luck dictate his actions.

"Patched through to the _Aeros _sir. Harwood's on the line."

The captain let out a grunt, turning away from the holographic display table as he did so. Luck might not dictate his actions, but Ulysses and Harwood were another matter.

"Sattler," came the voice of the scientist, emanating from the flatscreen at the bridge's rear. "I would have thought you'd have other things to do."

Sattler growled, even as a NCO exclaimed how the Covenant had started up another turkey shoot. He didn't know how much Harwood could see from her end, but it was safe to assume that her view was detailed enough to glimpse the tactical display. Technically speaking, it was a display that he was meant to keep his eye on. But with the battle lines being static, he felt he could spare a moment to vent his spleen.

"My men are dying down there," the captain began, letting three years of frustration compressed into less than a day come bubbling over. "They're dying because we're on a world that's hardly worth protecting and-..."

"Is this about the reinforcements query?" Harwood asked, maintaining her composure. "It's not my job to tell you how to do yours, but I'd say your primary quarrel should be with the Covenant, not with me."

_Ouch_.

Sattler could have made his own quip by pointing out that quarrelling with aliens who refused to even acknowledge you had a language wasn't really possible, but decided against it. Technically, Harwood had a point. Technically, while Major Howard had direct control of the 31st, that was hardly an excuse for him not to follow events with an eagle eye. But _technically_, Sattler was the second highest ranking individual in this star system which allowed him to bend the rules. So with the knowledge that yet another line of Covenant turkeys had joined the ones eaten four days ago, he felt he could afford to speak his mind.

"Technically speaking, I can't do much quarrelling," began the captain, starting to pace around like a poorly disciplined swabbie. "All my ground forces are planetside, our MAC's out of action and the _Haven_'s hangars our empty. Taking it down to Hope itself is an option, but for now, it's best to stay up here in case more aliens show up. Aliens who could blow us out of the sky if they did. And-..."

"Stop right there."

Sattler did, which surprised him. And, considering that it was the ONI scientist who gave the order, frustrated him as well.

"I've already called for ships to evacuate the colony," said the doctor slowly. "What I haven't called for, are more military warships."

"And why the hell not?" Sattler yelled, despite already knowing the answer.

Harwood sighed. "Captain, I don't know what oxygen levels are like on the _Haven_, but you may have forgotten that what's left of the Outer Colonies are at risk, and the only reason they haven't been obliterated is because the Navy, _your _Navy, is fighting tooth and nail to protect them. So, with millions dead and billions more at risk, what moral precedent do you have to ask Admiral Cole to come and help out a single world that's actually holding its own? And even if you did, what makes you think they'd get here fast enough to make a difference?"

Sattler opened his mouth to speak...then closed it. On one hand, he had an answer. On the other, he didn't.

Even as more laughs came from the bridge crew, no doubt stemming from the tactical display, Sattler's mood was anything but jovial. He didn't know what galled him most-that Harwood was technically correct, or that she was also technically wrong. Yes, she was right about the Outer Colonies situation, right about Hope not being that relevant (both of them had learned how to run the numbers apparently). But what she wasn't correct about was the speed of the slipstream currents in the system and the speed at which they could bring additional ships.

_But those readings were coupled from those taken from the Aeros..._the captain reminded himself. _So how does Harwood not know?_

Was it possible that the scientist did know about the slipspace phenomena running rampant in the system and still chose to withhold his request for more warships? And if so, was it due to caution, or something else? After all, he hadn't discovered why a single HEV had been dispatched from the _Aeros _this morning, nor why _Aeros _soldiers had gone after it. Harwood was keeping secrets from him, he knew that much...but if there was a secret stemming behind withholding Naval forces, what on Earth was it?

Keeping his silence, Sattler realized he wasn't going to get an answer...for now at least.

"Anyway, it's not so bad," the scientist continued smugly, realizing that she'd won the debate. "Based on information I've recieved-..."

"You've recieved stuff?"

"...Your marines are holding their own. So on that note-..."

"Um, sir?" came the voice of Ulysses. "Bit of a sit-rep for you."

Murmuring something under his breath, Ulysses turned back to face the AI, only to see a hand of light pointing towards the tactical display. Specifically, towards what was once a Scorpion tank, the large green dot now reduced to a large brown dot.

"Well?" asked Harwood. "What is it?"

"A sign..." Sattler murmured, half listening to Ulysses as he explained that one of the three Scorpions had been reduced to slag by a plasma mortar."

"A sign of what?"

"A sign that we may not be holding our own much longer..."

* * *

**Settlement 01 ("Thunderville")**

Usually it was a case of his hands being cold and his body warm. Right now though, it was the other way round.

Jack Hawkins wasn't in the mood to be giving or listening to explanations, so he couldn't appreciate what some might call irony. Hope wasn't that much better than the frozen wasteland that was Harvest and while his fatigues could do a good job of keeping him warm, his hands were left exposed to the planet's relatively low temperatures, courtesy of a shrouded sky and fair distance from its sun. Right now however, with rain hitting him as hard as bullets and penetrating even further, most of his body was freezing. And as he opened fire with a M247 general purpose machine gun, only his hands remained warm. Not too warm, such as the hands of the previous gunner, but warm enough to keep his aim steady.

Like that even mattered.

It had come as a surprise to Hawkins to suddenly be subject to micro-management, to be sent to the western section of Thunderville's only line of defense. Maybe it was because RRT no longer existed and he and Chambers were effectively without a unit. Or maybe it was because the previous gunner's hands had become so hot that the skin was evaporating and the guy needed a medic to convince him that there were worse things than getting hit by a charged plasma pistol round. Regardless, Hawkins had found himself taking the man's place. And while he could barely see anything in this early night, something told him he didn't have to.

"Get some! Come and get some!"

Sighing, Hawkins wondered who could possibly be so jovial in such conditions, let alone how he could have heard the words over yet another roll of thunder. There was certainly no shortage of aliens to "get some," as the guy had put it, but that was cold comfort in more ways than one. Some alien had managed to get a hit on the previous user of this GP, so what was to stop him from sharing the same fate?

As his latest magazine ran dry, apparently reloads were a viable option.

"You alright Hawkins?" asked Chambers as the PFC ducked down behind this barricade, fumbling for another clip. "Anything I can do?"

"What about your other patient?" the marine responded, not even gazing in the medic's direction.

Chambers sighed. "Did what I could, but…"

She trailed off and Hawkins couldn't blame her. He actually hadn't seen someone get hit by a plasma pistol before and up until a few hours ago, hadn't seen anyone get hit by plasma whatsoever. But with three years of idleness catching up to him in an instant, he'd found himself without his closest friend and forced to do what he missed out on Harvest. And that included hoping that superheated gas didn't find its way to you.

Or, as some poor bloke nearby exploded in a cloud of purple mist, needler rounds.

"Back to work…" the PFC murmured, sending out a wave of .30 caliber rounds to the Grunt who had got lucky and ended its luck in a pool of teal blood. The advancing aliens weren't the biggest threat facing the 31st right now, but having seen his first deaths today, part of Hawkins wanted to return the favor as much as possible. True, the Banshees above were greater in number than he'd expected, but the Argent missiles were at least preventing them from getting too close was best suited for infantry. Besides, with RRT's LAAGs having not proved the most effective weapon in the world, he was skeptical of what a non-gauss weapon could achieve.

_Or was that due to Jefferson?_

Ducking down as a green ball of light shot overhead, the jarhead (possibly a misnomer, as his scalp was covered in saturated hair) wondered what had become of the Helljumper. He knew that the ODST had been barely conscious once they arrived back at Thunderville, but with the Covenant force arriving soon after them, he'd generally gone with the flow and not bothered looking at what was on the proverbial floodplain. Because certainly he was as wet and cold as if he were in a river and Jefferson could well have been said to be lying around on its banks, recovering from an experience that men in his line of work should have been able to take easily.

_Jackass…_

Scowling, the marine downed a careless Jackal, along with the Grunt who attempted to pick up its defense gauntlet. War was never fair, but even so, his experience with the ODST rankled him. Collie, Fry, even Physon…Jefferson might have had his feet in Hell, but he'd rather shove him all the way down and retrieve one of his friends in exchange any day. And while he and the only other survivor of Romeo Reconnaissance Team were out here freezing, Jefferson was no doubt lazing around doing absolutely nothing.

"Hope Jefferson's okay…" Chambers murmured, firing with a MA5B as she did so.

Hawkins sighed, and not only because of her poor aim. The only two survivors of RRT and he and Chambers were as different as chalk was to cheese.

"Don't you have patients to treat?" Hawkins asked, his eyes still fixed on the invading aliens.

"Not right now. Why?"

"Oh…no particular reason."

Hawkins wasn't sure how good of a liar he was, but as he fumbled around for yet another magazine, he could take solace that he wouldn't have to face his fellow marine directly. There was no need for lies right now, especially when an honest answer was what he wanted in regards to the nature of this attack. Having observed it down a gun barrel for quite some time, the PFC had noticed something strange about the alien advance. And while going with the flow originally, now he was willing to take his mind out of the river and enter the realm of questioning that the floodplain provided.

For starters, why were the Covenant attacking the settlement's defenders head on? Thunderville had an extensive perimeter and while the marines and civilians could defend it, they'd be well spread out. Clearly the Covenant had the numbers to make this the case, but as far as he could tell, they were simply sending its warriors to the slaughter. And what of the warriors themselves? Up until now it had been nothing but Grunts and Jackals, with no sign of the larger and infinitely deadlier species the homogeny featured. Why not use some of that alien muscle and actually make a dent in the 31st's lines?

Finally finding a clip, Hawkins realized he didn't know. The floodplain had given way to bedrock, one that his questions couldn't meander through. There simply wasn't any explanation for the Covenant's method of attack.

Still, rupturing a Grunt's methane tank with his first burst, the PFC realized that he didn't really care either.

* * *

**Zulu Base**

"Well Robins? How's it going?"

"You want a harsh truth or a good lie?"

Looking down at the frantic work being conducted on Goliath, Ellison didn't bother answering. Indeed, he didn't need Robins to say anything. That the vehicle still had some bugs to iron out was clear. And if it wasn't for the battle being fought on the surface, he would have been willing to accept that fact and work at the same pace at which he'd done so for the last three years.

"We have to work faster," murmured the engineer, stating the obvious. "We have to get this thing working."

"No shit Sherlock," said Robins snidely, his gaze having followed the marine's to the vehicle. "It's what we've been trying to do for the past-…"

"Robins, even if Goliath wasn't needed on the surface, we probably won't have any more time to work on it anyway," Ellison interrupted. "The Covenant's found us and if we're very lucky, we'll be able to load our _basic _possessions on the transport ships."

Sighing, the engineer turned away from the window looking down over the hangar, allowing himself composure in the brilliant scent of recycled air. He knew that he might have been morally obliged to make some argument at this point, to make some sweeping gesture that the tank had to be used to help the brave souls on top, but somehow, he couldn't be bothered. It was a war. People died all the time. All that was left was to deal with the facts.

"You know, I'm surprised," the engineer heard Robins say.

"Oh really?"

"Yes. I thought you didn't care about your _vehicle too good to warrant an animal name_, but it appears I was wrong."

Ellison snorted. "Who said I cared? You know, if I actually _cared _about the bloody thing, I'd be able to name it after something it looks like."

"Such as?"

The engineer shrugged. "I dunno. Maybe I can use the Warthog for inspiration. Or the Mongoose. Or maybe-…"

A sudden _boom_ kept Ellison within the animal kingdom and the plant he was talking to as well. A "boom" that thankfully came from outside the base, rather than in it. Still, even protected from the weather, it was still cold, and not from comfort.

"Thunder?" Robins asked. "Or-…"

"Plasma," Ellison grunted. "And not from lightning."

Technically it could have been lightning-why the Covenant would actually use it as a weapon was beyond the marine, but right now, he was willing to believe anything. Science could be good interesting, such as the removal of cancer, interesting, such as the discovery of the Ross-Ziegler Blip or bad interesting, such as when an AI went rampant in an attempt to prove that some science fiction memes never died. But when you removed the interest all together, when you were stuck with a tank whose designer had disappeared along with everyone else on the _Spirit of Fire_…well, you could only last so long. And hearing not one but two _booms_ strike the surface above Zulu Base, Ellison went past his expiration date.

"That's it," the marine declared. "I'm going in."

"Going in?" Robins asked, following the engineer down the stairs that led to the hangar. "What do you mean by-…"

"Going in," Ellison repeated, reaching the bottom floor. "You know, going _in_to Goliath, going _up _to the surface and sending the Covies _out _of this world.

"…want to add a fourth dimension to that?"

"What, time?" the marine asked, resting a hand on the vehicle's cool metal, adding to the chills already running up and down his spine. "We ran out of that long ago."

To Ellison's surprise, as he climbed over the vehicle's treads to its cockpit, none of the techs made any move to stop him. He didn't think he could make that good of an impression of rolling thunder chasing away the proverbial lightning. Or maybe they understood the situation the way he did. Or at least, the white suits did apart from Robins, gazing at the marine with concern of all things.

_Oh gag me…_

"Alan, I know that three years of this work hasn't diluted your espirit de corps," began the scientist. "But even assuming that the tank could-…"

"Doc, it works, if only for a short time," Ellison interrupted, adjusting the controls with one hand while signaling the ammunition loading process to begin with his other. "And I lost that feeling years ago, so don't think you can apply the opposite of gusto."

"Right," Robins laughed. "I guess it's true what they say. Next to hydrogen, stupidity is the most common thing in the universe.

Focusing on the start-up process, Ellison didn't answer. He knew that he had plenty of both, with one element fueling the tank and the other fueling his body. Which one expired first was unknown, but he could only hope that a second Big Bang didn't end what the first had begun.

"Well, guess there's no stopping you," said Robins, stepping away from the vehicle. "And I guess the other tank driver will be glad to see you."

Ellison glanced his way. "Tank? Don't you mean _tanks_?"

Robins shook his head, looking pensive. "Howard just sent an update to my chatter. Another Scorpion's just been destroyed.

"…great."

Closing the hatch above his head, Ellison felt his supply of stupidity running out. However, even as the hydrogen coursed through the vehicle and its ammunition loaded, he kept his cool.

Alive or dead, Tara was up there…

…and while not a knight, he was at least encapsulated in shining armor.

* * *

**J'ma Legion**

**Frontline of Battle**

_And to think that I thought defending the ship was the best course of action._

Even in the howling wind of this barren world, Field Master Andra 'Serafomee's spirits remained high. Or, at least as high as he was, standing on top of the hill that overlooked the cluster of dwellings the humans dared call home. Not as high as the sky or stars, not as high as the few remaining Banshees flying overhead, but certainly higher than that of the defenders and the cannon fodder sent to test them. A middle of the full spectrum of happiness, but higher than anyone who really counted.

A formality really. Happiness was irrelevant right now. All that mattered was that he get the job done.

Observing the battle from his vantage point, standing firm even as unggoy shivered around him in both cold and fear, 'Serafomee could tell that the battle was swinging in his favor. He'd anticipated breaking the backs of the vermin by now, or at least their lines, but still they were holding strong, the bodies of unggoy and kig-yar having formed several rows of the dead. Still, those rows were getting ever closer towards the front. Sooner or later, the two lines would meet and then it would be time to send in his fellow brethren, the sangheili. Warriors whose lives were too important to spend probing human defenses and would tear them apart in a single wave. A wave that-…

**Pow!**

"Run away!" screamed an unggoy, his fear proving as contagious to his fellow arthropods as…well, whatever disease was common in the creatures. The field master however, couldn't care less. Any disease might well be a blessing in disguise given the creature's ability to multiply like bacteria and what had sent them running was a lucky shot that had struck their superior. Some rogue kinetic projectile that had somehow packed enough punch to test his shields, however briefly.

_Are they actually aiming at me? _'Serafomee wondered, quickly glancing to make sure that he was not too exposed in his position. _Are they really that desperate?_

If they were, he wouldn't have been surprised. Animals tended to be irrational when faced with their own demise.

"Field master, I'm sorry about the unggoy's cowardice," came the voice of Phylo 'Waromee, a major domo. "What would you have me do with their leader?"

'Serafomee didn't think the cowards that had fled actually had a leader, but clearly the sangheili had chosen one anyway, hauling one of the lesser species across the ground. Taking the whimpering creature and promptly breaking its neck, the field master solved the problem quickly.

"Don't waste your time on those unfit to be in our legion," 'Serafomee said, turning his attention back to the battle. "Save your energy for when you carry our light down to the heretics."

"Which is _when_, exactly?"

"When I say so 'Waromee, and not before," the field master snapped, not liking his subordinate's tone. "Now rejoin your lance."

"…of course, field master."

Sighing, 'Serafomee knew that the major had a point. His original plan was to simply fight a holding action, to draw all the human defenders to the frontline to engage his force, while the other two components of his legion swept around to attack the settlement's flanks in what was to be a three-pronged assault. It was a plan that he had carried on for too long and upon realizing that he had undertaken a frontal assault longer than he should have, had been left with no choice but to surge ahead.

_What in the name of Sangheilios happened though? _the field master wondered, watching some retreating unggoy barge into some kig-yar, the two groups deciding that the humans were no longer their enemy. _Where could they be?_

'Serafomee had divided his force over an area that was outside visual contact in this weather, but still well within radio contact. Or so he thought, considering that the other two components of his legion were silent on the frequencies. It was unlikely the humans could have taken them out, even if they had surprise on their side, but what other explanation was there? Either way, 'Serafomee knew that he couldn't afford to retreat now and what was initially a simple probing exercise had taken on a more tactical component. While the settlement's defenders had only three tanks, it was enough to wreck havoc on the charging unggoy and kig-yar. In response, the field master had directed the fire of his Wraiths and Banshees towards them, wanting to take out the metal-clad behemoths before making his surge forward. A deviation from the norm in a plan where 'Serafomee hadn't wanted any deviations at all, but as there was only one human tank still operating now, it was a deviation that seemed to have paid off.

_Or not…_

Watching the last human tank disappear in a blue cloud of oblivion, Andra 'Serafomee's deviation hadn't _seemed _to have paid off. It _had _paid off.

And contacting all his fellow sangheili via his radio, he sent his brethren forward to reap the benefits.

* * *

**Settlement 01 ("Thunderville")**

"**Incoming!"**

_Bit late for that, don't you think?_

It was perhaps a bit much, making jokes when he'd narrowly escaped death. Still, as he rose from the ground that had now become mud, Ardo would have maintained that he was joking _because _he escaped death. There was probably some psychological reason floating around a communication network, but right now, all Ardo cared about was that it was the Scorpion, not he, that had been reduced to a pool of liquid slag.

_Poor bastards…_

Over the course of battle, Ardo had seen exactly what plasma could do, especially so since the aliens (Grunts, Jackals, whatever) had been getting closer with each attack and thus more likely to hit their targets. Apparently the Wraiths had been getting closer too, what with marines yelling out "incoming" _after _a plasma mortar struck its target.

_Guess the razors caused some brain fluid to leak…_the miner thought, reflecting on the same joke that Ellison had once shared with him and briefly wondering what the engineer was doing now. _Or the neural implants did…did…_

Whatever neural implants did, it would do nothing to solve this situation.

Ardo wasn't sure what gave him the first clue exactly that something was wrong-that a new breed of alien was now rushing down towards Thunderville's first and only line of defense or that marines who were previously hanging back were now rushing to the barricades and joining the thin brown line. Then again, maybe he should have taken the hint earlier. It was now clear that "incoming" hadn't been about the plasma mortar. It had been about the latest wave of Covenant attackers. A wave that might well be the last one the human defenders faced.

_Shit shit shit!_

Ardo could tell that the humanoid reptiles leading the charge were Elites instantly. Not that he'd ever seen one before, but while Jackals and Grunts could be mixed up in his recollection of the tales that Ellison had shared, there was no mistaking the cream of the crop of the Covenant infantry. Nor did any other defender mistake them for what they were, shouts of what were once bravado turning into ones of desperation. Bullets flew, grenades were thrown and while the odd saurian succumbed to the barrage, most of them let their shields take the punishment and surged forward even faster. And towering above the lesser Covies and leading them, it was hard to thin out the numbers of Grunts or Jackals. Not that instinct was inclined to choose the lesser threat, but even if every Elite was killed before reaching the frontline, their buddies would probably be in a position to finish the job anyway.

"Fire! Fire!"

"Go to hell you spit jaw!"

Ardo ducked down-both to avoid some plasma fire and as to not see the pair of marines disappear in a cloud of blue mist. And in a rare surge of brotherly love, he was glad that Tara was looking in the opposite direction when it happened.

"Ardo!" she cried, ducking down by a barricade with him, holding her dinky pistol in such a manner that betrayed the fact that she _knew _it was dinky. "Ardo, I-…"

The miner didn't answer, briefly rising out of cover and ducking back down as a plasma mortar hit the surface about ten meters in front of him. Seeing some jarheads do the same from some Banshee fire, it was clear that the Covenant weren't about the let their main soldiers be exposed to more harm than necessary. It was unlikely to be coincidence that the Elites hadn't shown up until the last Scorpion was destroyed, or that no further energy mortars were coming down. Keep the humans occupied long enough to the point where it was too late and the split-chins would do the rest. A moment that, as Ardo rose to see the playing field, was becoming increasingly near.

_Homina homina homina…_

Once, the miner had found himself low on targets within a reasonable range for his shotgun to be effective. Now, there was no shortage of them and he pumped away shell after shell in response, the gunpowder irritating his eyes as much as the sheets of rain, not to mention the feel of plasma nearly hitting him. Bullets, grenades…every defender blazed away at the horde. But it was like throwing pebbles into a river in an attempt to dam it. And once the river reached the defenders, it was guaranteed that they'd drown.

_This is it…_thought the miner grimly as he saw one of the aliens activate some kind of curved energy blade in definite anticipation of using it. _This is-…_

**Boom!**

Yelling in pain as he and Tara dived for cover, Ardo dropped his shotgun and pressed both hands to his ears, his ear drums ringing faster than Frere Jacques's alternate doppelganger. _Something _had just passed over him and every other defender within at least ten meters of him, considering that civilian and marine alike were clutching their ears in pain. Something that might have been related to seeing the energy sword go flying through the air with an alien arm still attached.

_What the hell just-_

**Boom!**

…_happened!_

The second "boom" was even louder than the first one. And watching Grunts, Jackals and even Elites fly through the air, somehow even more effective. And daring to peak at the epicenter of the "boom," also noticing how half of the aliens along their line of attack were now looking at the newly formed crater, it was clear they had realized this as well.

_What the…_Ardo wondered, his ears still ringing. _What in the world just-…_

"Ardo, move!"

At first, the miner didn't know why Tara was pulling him aside, any more than everyone else within at least six meters was scattering. Still, seeing the largest tank he'd ever seen chugging towards the frontline, not stopping for anything, he could understand why. Two turrets, one machine gun and the word **GOLIATH **painted on its hulltended to demand shock and awe as well as inflict it.

"Goliath?" Ardo exclaimed. "_That's _what Ellison was working on! What in the-…"

"Wow, a Grizzly!" a marine exclaimed, daring to approach the armor clad behemoth that was now pouring gunfire into the aliens up ahead, along with the occasional shell from its cannons. "Haven't seen one of those since Harvest!"

"Yeah, that's right you mothers!" yelled another soldier, watching the aliens buckle under the vehicle's raw firepower. "Get some!"

"Um, I don't think they'll be doing that…" Tara murmured.

"Um, what?" Ardo murmured, his gaze switching from the tank to its alien victims like clockwork.

"The aliens," his sister whispered. "I don't think they'll be…getting some…"

Ardo barely heard her, his gaze still sweeping the scene. It was like watching a maglev train wreck. You just couldn't look away.

The Covenant could though. And as Ardo's gaze switched back to them, a great number of them were facing the other way.

"They're retreating?" Ardo asked, watching Elites struggled to keep their brethren in line. "I thought they never-…"

"They weren't expecting a Grizzly!" a marine declared, making his own statement but still answering Ardo's query. "Things go wrong, time to _split_."

Ardo fought the urge to roll his eyes-he appreciated the pun, however bad it was. What he appreciated even more was that not only was the Grizzly rolling forward, but he heard a voice emanate from inside it.

"A and A," the pilot said. "Good to see you guys."

"Alan?" Tara exclaimed. "_You're _driving this thing?"

"Pretty much."

Ardo found himself sinking to the ground. This was all too much. Much to his displeasure, he was soon hauled back to them, to see a sight that was just as hard to believe as…well, everything else over the past few minutes. Someone either idiotic or brilliant had ordered that Thunderville's defenders engage in pursuit. And like sheep following the shepherd, the defenders had obliged, climbing over the barricades and giving chase to the aliens in flight or were attempting to stand their ground. Either way, the Covies were dying in droves and somehow the horde of humans eager for payback was inflicting an either higher death toll than they would have inflicted if standing still.

_Maybe I should just stay here…_Ardo thought to himself. _I've done my part, maybe I should-…_

"Move it pal."

Ardo didn't know who was pushing him over the barricade, but as Tara was already running forward like a child on a sugar high (maybe she was), it was clear it wasn't her. Which meant that talking himself out of this wouldn't be a sure thing.

"Listen pal, I don't-…"

"You've got shotgun. Use it."

…_jackass._

Then again, maybe engaging in pursuit wasn't so bad.

For as he watched Ellison lead the charge in his treads of death, Ardo reflected that he might actually enjoy this.

* * *

**J'ma Legion**

**Frontline of Battle**

'Serafomee couldn't believe what he was seeing.

Maintaining his composure externally, the field master felt composure of the internal variety get vented in the same way a ship might vent radiation. One moment his fellow battle brothers were on the cusp of victory, ready to sweep away all those that stood before them and remove this world of infection. The next, with the sudden emergence of another human artillery piece, and his forces were in disarray.

"Field master?" he heard 'Waromee ask. "What are your orders?"

The sangheili couldn't bring himself to respond. Taken off guard by the giant piece of metal firing at them and the sudden surge in the enemy's morale, the unggoy and kig-yar of his force were given flight. And while his fellow sons of Sanghelios were without fear, they were not without confusion. Some tried to bring the lesser species back in line, some continued charging towards the humans and others were torn between the two. And while each sangheili could be an army in himself, they were still effectively isolated. The wave of the Covenant had never hit the human dam and now that dam had become a wave in itself, picking off his brethren's islands one by one as they surged uphill.

"Field master?" 'Waromee repeated, his voice far more tense than before. "Your _orders_?"

The commanding sangheili clicked his mandibles, regaining a modicum of control. "Yes, orders. Of course…"

Glancing back at the major domo and all his fellow sangheili, 'Serafomee realized what was once a flaw in his plan had become an asset. He'd intended to send a single, all-conquering wave of soldiers to engulf the settlement's defenders, but with his lances spread out across his position, that wave had effectively become disjointed, separated into two by virtue of starting position. But now, as his first wave lost momentum, he had a second force to send down into battle.

"The humans bring the fight to us…" 'Serafomee murmured, watching the gap steadily close and yet more of his forces' bodies fly through the sky. "So we shall bring the fight to them…"

"What?" 'Waromee blurted out. "Field master, surely it is best to hold our position here, to let the Wraiths obliterate the tank while we-…"

"No! They have spilt our blood and sullied our honor! And they shall pay the price!"

'Waromee looked at his superior as if to say that it was only 'Serafomee's honor being spilt. Still, the field master cared little. Losing contact with his other two forces, watching a fourth human tank emerge…they were mistakes, but ones that were outside his control. While he would accept whatever blame was attributed to him after the battle was won, he would make sure it would end on his own terms.

_Come to us…_'Serafomee thought, activating his energy sword and holding it high as his fellow sangheili moved to the front, ready to charge on his order. _Meet us in battle…_

With the wind at his back, the rain on his armor and his foe before him, the field master waited. And waited. And waited some more. Waiting for the right moment. And just as the last unworthy unggoy breathed his last, just as the last cowardly kig-yar departed on the Great Journey, just as the battlefield was set for the warriors of Sanghelios to make their mark. Alone. For the honor and glory to be all theirs…

…and eventually it came.

"**Forward!"**

* * *

**UNSC **_**Haven**_

**Status: Maintaining geo-stationary orbit around planet Hope, Chi Mu System**

"To gain control you have to lose control."

Staring at the holographic map that displayed the battlefield Hope's surface had become, Captain Justin Sattler couldn't remember who had told him such a thing, or when. It was probably sometime when he made the transition from starfighter to capital ship, but even that was nebulous. Still, regardless of when, where or who, the message remained same. Control in the upper levels of command was all about surrendering it. To control your forces from a distance, yet sacrifice any semblance of control on the individual level. Which, as he stared at the tactical display, was exactly what he was doing.

"It's not all bad sir," piped up Ulysses, as if reading the CO's mind. "There is _one _thing you could do?"

"Really? What's that?"

"Well, if the worst comes to worst, you could crash the ship into the planet, eradicating-…"

"I'll take that under advisement," Sattler lied. "Now shut up."

It was a sign of how frustrating the situation was that Sattler was letting his bridge crew watch the war games on the map rather than getting on with their duties. Even three years ago, the dynamic would have been much different. Even in the event that the Navy got some breathing space above Harvest, the _Haven _would still be busy coordinating everything from supplies to Shortswords on the ground below, maybe even more extreme measures. But with the _Haven _deprived of any meaningful forces or starfighters and with its MAC offline, there was nothing its crew could do but stand and wait. Oh, and watch how what was initially a rout of the Covenant forces become what was fated to be a melee.

"Howard," Sattler murmured into his comm. link, suspecting that the major was in the same position that he was. "I assume you're aware that your forces have become the cavalry rather than waiting for it."

"Yes sir, I know sir," came the tired voice from the other end. Clearly he'd been exerting more control than the captain had thought. Or at least trying to.

"And you didn't order your troops to surge forward?"

"No sir. Goliath just showed up sir and…well…"

Sattler sighed. He didn't know what was worse-losing control after having it, or never having control in the first place. If there were any humans left alive in the Chi Mu System in the next few hours, maybe he and the major could have a discussion as to which was least desirable.

Watching purple blips steadily close in on green blips, Sattler could appreciate that had the marines have the numbers to spare, surging forward on morale and heavy armor would have been a good idea. Certainly the arrival of the Grizzly had turned the first tide on its collective alien arses and if that had been the only one, the battle would have been one. Now though, as the last fight was about to take place, Sattler recognized that the fight could go either way. Most of the Banshees had been shot down and if the Grizzly remained in the fight long enough, the Covenant infantry would likely be defeated. Should it be destroyed however, such as by the remaining Wraiths, then every marine and civilian down there might as well kiss Hope's dirt goodbye and be glad that the Covenant didn't take prisoners.

_It's all down to this…_Sattler reminded himself, glancing at the assembled lieutenants whose anxious gazes told him that they knew the same thing. _All down to a final-…_

"Captain, incoming slipspace rupture!"

"What?" Sattler exclaimed, turning to face Ulysses and subsequently a star map of the Chi Mu System. "Where?"

Ulysses didn't answer. With a blip representing the rupture appearing within range of the representations of the _Haven _and _Aeros_, he didn't have to.

"One ship…" Sattler heard an ensign murmur. "What does that mean?"

Sattler sighed. "What it means is that if it's a human ship, the people on Hope might have a chance."

"And if it's a Covenant one?"

Sattler didn't answer. He didn't want to.

No-one would have enjoyed hearing it anyway.

* * *

**Settlement 01 ("Thunderville")**

Aliens were screaming, humans were screaming and it was impossible to distinguish the two groups of sound. And coupled with howling wind, sheets of rain and terrain that had turned into a mud pit, the pedantics of the situation were the least of Ardo's concerns. His body was on autopilot, staying close to Goliath and unloading a shell at any alien who came too close to him. Not that many did of course-treads of death tended to prompt enemies to keep their distance, even when someone who didn't know what he was doing was staying as close as possible. And with the entire battlefield in chaos, not even an Elite would be willing to go on a heroic charge to engage him.

They came close of course. Watching an energy sword sever a marine in half, the alien growling ready to

…be set alight by a Hellbringer's flamethrower.

Jackals, shields cast aside, their beaks tearing into an unfortunate sod's beak…

…only to be torn apart in a hail of gunfire, biting the dust rather than biting flesh.

Blue energy from a plasma grenade…

…a pool of teal blood.

A Grunt's body rolling down the hill…

…coming to rest by a pile of human ones.

Ardo couldn't tell how long it went on for, how either side could possibly have enough soldiers left to sustain the battle as it was, with bodies hitting the floor left, right and center. He didn't know why he could still hear the screams of the living and dying, as close as he was to the Grizzly. Ellison hadn't had many chances to use his cannons, given how close the two forces were, but every time he did and the miner saw Covenant body parts flying through the air, it was clear that the engineer was making his shots count. And even then his coaxial machine gun blazed away, cutting down any alien stupid enough to expose himself to the behemoth.

_Tara would love this…_Ardo thought, watching how an Elite's shields gave way under the barrage of gunfire the tank was pouring into it, falling down in a last defiant roar immediately afterwards. _Especially since…wait, where is she?_

Lighting raced across the sky, but for all the illumination it provided, it didn't give Ardo any sense of where his sister was. Somehow in the rush up the hill he'd lost her. And while he'd gravitated to the safety of the tank, she hadn't…

…_or couldn't._

Feeling panic well up in him for the first time since the melee began, Ardo started heading away from the tank, wanting to get a clearer view of the battlefield. A marine ripping a Grunt's facemask off, a Jackal reflecting gunfire back into its aggressors, just as an Elite did this, as one did that…the tall aliens were in the majority, the lesser Covies having mostly been depleted in early assaults. And seeing one send a trio of marines flying with a sweep of its arm while another poured plasma into its foes, quality was even more terrifying than quantity.

_Tara…Tara?_

Ardo didn't shout. Somehow, he couldn't shout. And even if he did, even if he'd let loose his voice as the energy mortars came down, it wouldn't have mattered. As the barrage hit the Grizzly, nothing did.

**Boom!**

"Shit!" Ardo exclaimed, diving down into what was once mud and was now…well, something even muddier if that made sense. Like the battle itself, it wasn't something that he intended to study. Because turning back to the blazing wreckage of the Grizzly, watching its metal buckle under the intense heat the plasma had cast over it, little else mattered right now.

"Ellison?" Ardo asked the smoking wreck. "Ellison?"

Nothing answered. No screams in the fire, no secondary detonation…nothing. Just a funeral pyre to one of the miner's few friends and given the death rate over the last few hours, perhaps the death of his only remaining one. Sinking to his knees, letting the rain wash away his tears, Ardo let that fact sink in. Alan Ellison was dead. Gone. For all he knew, Tara could be the same. And somehow, out in the middle of the battlefield, Ardo Turner was practically unharmed.

"Damnit…" the native of Hope murmured, facing the mud and seeing his reflection. _"Damnit!"_

Somehow, his voice wasn't drowned out by the wind. Nor was the "wort wort wort!" sound he heard either. And just for the hell of it, he tried to find the source.

He didn't have to look far.

Up ahead, say twenty, twenty-five feet, was an Elite. A gold armored Elite. An Elite whose energy sword was currently skewing some unfortunate marine, his limp body sliding down the blade until it reached the hilt. Snarling, the alien cast the body aside, looking for his next victim.

Seeing Ardo and yelling something incomprehensible, it didn't take long for the Covie to find one.

* * *

**J'ma Legion**

**Frontline of Battle**

This…was what battle was all about.

Watching the human soldier slide down his blade, waiting for the light to finally leave his eyes, Andra 'Serafomee fully understood why sangheili commanders preferred to lead from the front. Planning battles and directing them had their own flair to be sure. But to be involved in conflict like this, to have your survival dictated by your own actions and nothing else…it was _glorious_. And even if none of his adversaries had provided him with a challenge, even if more animals had fallen to his blade than he could count, it was still exhilarating. The human tank had proven to be a challenge, but with his Wraiths having taken it out, all that remained was to clear up the detritus.

Casting the human's body aside, 'Serafomee gazed around the battlefield, how while many of his battle brothers had fallen, many still fought on, bringing shield and sword to their enemies while their shields absorbed the worst of what the heretics could throw at them. At this point in time, it was only a matter of time before this world was purged of its infection.

_This isn't war…_'Serafomee thought, watching blood be spilt as his own rushed through him. _This is sport!_

Setting his sights on his newest prey, some unarmored heretic kneeling towards the ground as was proper, 'Serafomee let out a yell and charged. His latest prey was awaiting slaughter.

Hearing and seeing the harbinger of his doom, the human opened fire with his weapon, 'Serafomee's shields flickering with each strike. He knew the weapon by form if not by name, how it was essentially the human equivalent of a jiralhanae Mauler-good stopping power, but very limited range. Against a minor or major this may have been a problem, but 'Serafomee knew that he would reach the human long before his shields gave way.

The moment had come. The final reach, the final shot, the final swing of his sword and-…

…the human dodged it.

Blinking in surprise, 'Serafomee knew that the human was still alive, but "dodged" was too generous a term. The human had tried to duck under his horizontal swing, but had ended up falling down in the muddy terrain and rolled further down the slope. And like any animal fighting for its life, it was still trying to survive, still firing its weapon as he lay in the mud. Letting out a roar as his shield continued to flicker, 'Serafomee jumped towards him, ready to cleave him in…

…two?

This time, the human dodged. This time, he rolled to one side, the sangheili's sword cleaving only the soil of this world. And as 'Serafomee turned to face him, turned to this time impale him and not allow any more slipups, the unthinkable happened…

…his shields gave way.

_What? _The field master wondered, feeling the rain and wind strike his now exposed skin. _What in the name of Sanghelios just-…_

**Boom!**

…_happened?_

Feeling as cold inside as he did outside and dropping his sword as his right hand lost all feeling, 'Serafomee extended his left hand to his stomach, or rather what was left of it. Blood was pouring out and his interior was a bloody mess. At such close range, his armor had buckled under the human's shell and done nothing to protect him.

_Impossible…this can't…be right…_'Serafomee thought, watching the human rise to his feet with a murderous glint in his eyes. _Animals…can't…win…_

After that line of thought, the human let loose another round.

And after that, Andra 'Serafomee thought of nothing.

* * *

**Settlement 01 ("Thunderville")**

"I'm alive…" he whispered. "I'm still alive…"

Ardo knew he was stating the obvious, but looking at the alien who most decidedly _wasn't _alive, it wasn't clear whether he was actually in the realm of the living. Certainly Hope had become hellish enough, and the miner was under no delusions as to the possibility of flying among angels in the afterlife.

_Hope there's a special place in Hell for you, you son-of-a-bitch, _the human thought bitterly, slowly rising to his feet as he continued to stare at the Elite's body. He had no love for genocidal aliens, but couple their existence with Ellison's death, and how Ardo might have met a similar fate…well, now the hatred was personal. And coupled with a sense of elation of defeating the Covenant's finest being converted to yet even more hatred…well, the miner was ready for more.

_Click_

Spinning around to the source of the noise, Ardo cursed under his breath. He might have been ready for "more," whatever that was, but he wasn't ready for _this_.

Grunts. Specifically six Grunts, all of which were holding a dinky little pistol with a green light at the end. Still, as dinky as they were, Ardo had no doubt that they were intending to use it on him.

_This is insulting…_the human thought bitterly. _I take out an Elite and he's going to be avenged by these gas suckers?_

All in all, "avenge" might have been too strong a word, considering that not even the read armored alien (seemingly the leader) spared their superior a second glance. Indeed, if it wasn't for their breathers, Ardo could swear that the arthropods were smiling, as if the Elite's death was something of a benefit. Of course, they were about to frag another resident of Hope, so that was presumably another good thing for them.

_This is it…_Ardo thought to himself despondently, watching the Grunts take aim. _This is-…_

**Boom!**

…_it?_

No angels, no devils, so Ardo was able to assume that he was on the mortal plane still. That, and it was still freezing, still raining and the Grunts were still in front of him. Or rather three of them. The others had been crushed by this…thing…that had fallen from the sky. A big black thing almost nine feet tall. A thing like many other…things that were falling down left, right and center. A thing whose doors suddenly blew open, sending the miner diving for cover and the remaining three trembling Grunts flying along with it. A thing that revealed an even stranger…thing inside it.

Ardo cursed…or was it a praise? He didn't know anymore.

Rising from the mud, the gunfire of human weapons rumbling in his ears, the miner knew that the thing was actually some kind of drop pod, a type used by the same ODSTs that were currently sending the remaining Covenant forces into chaos and raising the spirits of the remaining human defenders. What he didn't know was who, or _what_, this pod's occupant was. Seven feet tall, olive armor that covered his whole body, a golden visor that revealed nothing…in his way, the human (assuming he _was _human) was even more alien than the Covenant. Indeed, if he hadn't quickly fallen in line with the ODSTs and begun tearing into the genuine aliens, Ardo might have assumed he was on their side.

_So…_Ardo wondered, watching yet more pods drop from the sky. _Have we won?_

Somehow, after all that had occurred, after all that had been lost, the answer was yes.

* * *

The being was satisfied.

The Monitor had shown its worth. Both the humans and Covenant had shown their worth, being at each other's necks long enough for him to do his work. This artifact had shown its worth as well, allowing the strangling to continue.

Now, at last, the Monitor's worth was nearing its end…

* * *

_A/N_

_I'll spare a lecture on how this was the longest chapter (which it is), that it took forever to write (which it did) and that I dislike writing battle scenes (which I do) which made this a kind of 'checkpoint chapter,' giving me the sense that I could actually finish this story (which is true). Lies about not giving lectures aside, I feel that some explanation is owed for the Goliath._

_My homepage goes into greater detail, but as mentioned, this fic stems back to 2006 and was a weird mesh of ideas from _StarCraft _and _Metal Gear_. Goliath was, in its first conception, basically the name of the walker from the former media and the form of Metal Gear REX from the latter media. Now, at this point in my time, I would like to ask my younger self a simple, reasonable question..._

**What the hell were you thinking?**

_While a matter of opinion, I'm reluctant to create for the sake of creating in sci-fi medias, that if there's some device/vehicle/weapon, etc. that can convey an effect I want, I'd rather use a pre-existing, canon example rather than make one up for the sake of making it up. And if I do use an original creation, it should have some level of technological precedent. A walker like that doesn't for the UEG and given the reaction some fans had to the Cyclops, might wish me said walker crushed me before getting lynched. Regardless, I thought it best to not go down the "big mech of doom" route. Still, for the sake of plot and the characters around said plot, I needed a replacement, hence settling on the Grizzly. Not quite the same, but still very hard to stop as _Halo Wars _demonstrated. _

_And yes, I realize I've made the longest chapter in this fic even longer. Go figure._

_(2011-08-05)_

_Corrected spelling and grammar errors._


	10. Aftermath

.

**Halo: Shadows of Hope**

**Chapter 10: Aftermath**

**Chi Mu System, Settlement 01 ("Thunderville")**

**Planet Hope**

Dawn had come, but the dead were still walking.

Walking among them, Petty Officer Second Class Isaac-039 found himself reminded of an old horror movie he'd managed to watch years ago. While genres such as science fiction had pretty much petered out into extinction, classics such as horror were still able to find an audience. And part of the producer's take in that particular download was that the undead could only come out at night. Trash perhaps, but enjoyable nonetheless. And walking across what was once a battlefield, the living stumbling around like zombies and on the brink of collapsing to join the dead, it was a case of déjà vu, and an unpleasant one at that.

_We won the battle..._the Spartan-II thought, watching as one local's legs gave way, collapsing from exhaustion. _But not the war..._

Words that had been said many times, but considering how scarce UNSC victories could be in this conflict, words that sometimes needed to be said. And after all, the Battle of Hope, if it were to be named as such in the future, was still on. A single Covenant attack had been repelled, but there was no guarantee that it would be the last.

Looking at the desperation in the living's eyes, the same milky white the zombies had, it was clear that the planet's name wasn't providing the emotion.

Keeping his footing despite the slipperiness of the slope that had become a battlefield, Green 5 glanced up at the sun, its glare reflected by his visor. It wasn't the largest ball of plasma he'd ever seen from a planet or moon, and there'd even been times when he hadn't been able to see one at all. Still, it was shining and providing a degree of warmth, a stark contrast to the thunderstorm that had struck yesterday. Isaac didn't believe that there was any supernatural force at work, but if the reactions of the bearers of the dead were anything to go by, the heat was already starting to cause the bodies to stink. Alien bodies had been piled up awaiting incineration, human bodies were being sorted into body bags, but decomposition was currently ahead in the race. That, and not every body always had all its limbs attached or was even distinguishable. And to make matters worse, practically all of the bodies were from ground pounders or civilians, with practically no ODST ones. So while Green Team and the Helljumpers that had descended with them were acknowledged as sealing the earlier battle in humanity's favour, there was still an uneasy dichotomy in casualty rates. And while it had saved the Spartan-IIs from handling the dead, Isaac still felt guilty over it.

Orders were orders though, as Joshua had pointed out. And after all that had happened, Isaac was still willing to comply by that philosophy.

_Wonder how the other guys are doing? _the super soldier wondered, idly nudging a dead Jackal with his foot while watching another Pelican descend from orbit, further reinforcing the settlement. _Have they-..._

"Jesus Christ, this guy stinks!"

"Could be worse Lars. He might have been using your aftershave."

Easily finding the source of the voices, Isaac's gaze shifted to what was once a tank. Technically it still _was _a tank, albiet of the charred, burnt out, twisted metal variety. The NCO hadn't seen many Grizzlies, but after all he'd heard, it was somewhat humbling to see one reduced to this. He'd seen its burnt out wreck when he first landed, but hadn't really thought about it until now. And he certainly hadn't thought about the charred, twisted corpse that had once been its driver. The same driver that two marines were currently pulling out towards a waiting body bag.

"Any tags?" the one named Lars asked, evidently not keen on looking for melted metal in melted flesh.

"Hell, I don't know," answered the other. "But from what I know, he's apparently an engineer that was working on this beast. Alan Ellison or something like that."

In an instant that might have given Kelly a run for her money, Isaac snapped to attention. Not of the military kind, not wanting to draw attention to himself, but simply out of interest. Alan Ellison? Could it really be him?

Clearly the marines didn't know, and the Spartan-II didn't think it a good idea to push them on the subject. Still, activating the IFF function of his HUD, Green 5 tried to find out.

_Nothing..._thought the NCO, neither his motion tracker nor IFF identifying the body. _Interface must have been destroyed..._

Unlike the two carriers of the dead, Isaac didn't feel too queasy over the thought of being burnt alive in a metal coffin, writhing at temperatures high enough to even make you unrecognisable to modern technology. However, he did feel genuine regret. Sitting down by a pile of Grunt corpses, suddenly feeling as tired as every other human being in and around Thunderville, Isaac reflected on the chances of it all, of actually coming across Ellison again after all these years. He'd barely known the man, but while everyone else who'd died over the past nine years had just been a face he remembered, Ellison had belonged to the era beforehand, one where the Spartan-II Program had been for a different purpose.

_Sorry pal..._Isaac thought, watching the body bag be taken away. _It would have been good to see you again under different circumstances._

A short eulogy, but Isaac hadn't been trained to deliver one. Rather, he'd been trained to avoid having one of his own. Still, as the chances of that were minimal right now, the NCO was willing to take the risk. Was willing to take out one of the few mementos he had of Reach. Ellison had stirred some memories, even more so than usual. And pulling out a crumpled piece of paper from among spare clips, the same one he'd pulled out when Green Leader had informed the team of their destination yesterday, he allowed himself to return to the past.

_Kirk, René...you haven't changed..._

Technically that was an impossibility. But with holo-stills having replaced print centuries ago, that non-moving photos were still found could be deemed "impossible" as well. As such, Kirk-018 and René-005 looked the same as they did back when the picture was taken. None of the children (if such a term could really be applied) were really posing, but the trio still fit the frame naturally. Kirk on the right, his gaze unwavering in its firmness. René smiling gently, standing with grace. And the one in the centre, the only one of their number who had changed over the-

"Hey, you're the one who landed by me, right?"

Spinning around, Isaac found the source of the voice. A fellow human. A human who suddenly found himself with a M6D pistol shoved in his face.

_Oops._

Isaac didn't care overmuch of what people thought of him. Labelled as saviours, freaks and sometimes both, no Spartan-II did (or rather, should). Still, he couldn't help but feel slightly embarrassed at having pulled a firearm on a local out of instinct, lost in memories that he should have moved on from. He hadn't thought that hanging onto the memento he'd recieved on that day ten years ago affected his job, but as he slid the photo back into an ammunition satchel, he was left to wonder. Wonder as much as the local as to why a weapon had been drawn.

"Jesus..." the man whispered, his puzzlement giving way to what Isaac recognised as anger. "I come to thank you and-..."

"Thank me?" the NCO blurted out, the pale man reminding him all too well of the type of people who pushed James down a flight of stairs back in training. All nice on the outside, poison on the inside. "Why thank me?"

"Well, you know, you landed on some Grunts that were about to frag me," the man snarled. "Didn't know that you wanted to save the honour for yourself."

_Honour? _Isaac wondered. _He's going about honour when...oh._

Unlike the trainers, the civilian before him wasn't poison on the inside and nice on the outside. Rather, it was the other way round and even then, "poison" betrayed the fact that he probably had a good reason to be angry. Isaac couldn't remember the last time he'd been thanked for anything. Not that that actually mattered, he'd known this would be his job since the age of six, but still...

"You don't have to thank me," the Spartan-II said awkwardly, holstering his pistol. "I'm just doing my job."

"Yeah, whatever," the miner grunted, turning around and walking off. "Alan would have said that as well."

Isaac lifted a hand slightly. Alan? As in Alan Ellison? Had the local known him as well.

Watching a cloud slide over the sun as if to reflect his mood, Isaac decided not to chase after the civilian. Yes, he recognised him vaguely from the moment he made planetfall, but it hardly seemed worth making matters even worse by pushing him on the subject. "Alan" wasn't exactly an uncommon name and besides, he shouldn't tear himself up over his death any more than those of Kirk and René. Sure his death was presumably more painful than their drawn out buoyancy tank ones, not to mention more recent, but as a genetically modified human, more was expected of him.

"Green Five, come in, over."

Hearing Joshua's voice over the radio, it was clear that Green Team's leader thought the same. Or, if he didn't, he at least didn't let that get in the way from doing his job.

"Green Leader, this is Green Five, over," Isaac answered. "What's up?"

"Little gathering at HQ. Major Howard wants to see us."

"Affirmative. On my way."

It was a bland conversation, but one Isaac welcomed. The Covenant was still on this rock and chances were Green Team would be entrusted in doing something about it.

Besides, it would take his mind off the recent memories.

* * *

**Chi Mu System, Mobile Research Station **_**Aeros**_

**Geo-stationary orbit around planet Hope**

"Ah, Captain Sattler. Better call Beowulf because I think Grendel just walked in."

Mina Harwood knew she was in for a tongue lashing, knew that she would be lucky if Sattler didn't send the _Aeros _falling down in flames. But at the very least, she had begun the inevitable debate on a high note. Because watching the captain's expression turn from irritation to confusion, it was clear that he had no idea who either of the two beings were.

_No surprises there._

"Um...yes, very clever of you Harwood," said Sattler eventually. "It's nice to see that recent events haven't diminished your usual charm."

"Or your personality," the scientist retorted, seeking to press her advantage. "It's clear that-..."

"Um, am I missing something?"

With the view screen of the research station's bridge divided in two, Harwood turned to the other half and out of the corner of her eye, saw that Sattler did the same on the bridge of the Haven. She'd almost forgotten about the frigate's commander, the one that had exited slipspace yesterday. Not exactly a fifth wheel, but defiantly a third one to the bicycle she and Sattler had been riding over the past three years. An unknown quantity, and one who might make all the difference. Even if she didn't know it yet.

"Commander...Ling, is it?" Harwood asked, staring at the CO's nametag.

"Yes ma'am," Ling answered, standing even straighter. "Commanding officer of the UNSC _Wild Endeavour_, assigned to-..."

Harwood drowned out the rhetoric. It was clear to her that Ling was a follower, someone who would follow orders to the letter. This might suit Sattler, considering his higher rank and more...lively personality, but as Harwood was still in charge, it might suit her as well. All that remained was to assert her position over Sattler and let things play out.

"So..." the ONI scientist began, turning her attention back to Sattler. "We tried contacting each other at round about the same time, so I'm assuming that it's over the same thing. Namely that a frigate assigned on patrol entered the system yesterday, no doubt on your orders."

"It's a frigate that saved our lives, you blonde-..."

"Wait..." interrupted Ling, saving the captain from uttering something he might regret. "_You _sent out the slipspace package? The one with vague orders?"

"Yes," said Sattler firmly. "Against orders, and I wanted it to be vague enough not to be in contradiction to whatever orders Harwood might have given."

"Which I didn't," Harwood pointed out. "I wasn't expecting anything so-..."

"Call me underhanded Harwood and you can talk to everyone down on Hope whose lives were saved because Ling showed up in time."

There it was. Stalemate.

Glancing at Ling, it was clear that the commander's loyalties were still up in the air, that of all the scenarios she'd imagined in regards to entering Chi Mu, a power struggle wasn't among them. Then again, as Harwood reminded herself, it wasn't actually a power struggle. She agreed with Sattler on many points and if it wasn't for Keancros's orders, she would have granted his requests. She'd yet to receive an answer from him and until she did, she couldn't comply with Sattler's demands. For now, she was obliged to follow orders to the letter.

"Listen Sattler, once this is all over, I'm sure we'll be able to...well, do something that might reduce our homicidal feelings towards each other," ventured Harwood, her words causing a snort from Ling around "homicidal" for some reason. "As you pointed out, Thunderville is safe, in part thanks to Ling's arrival. So maybe we should discuss the matter at hand."

His jaw clenched, Sattler simply nodded. Like Harwood, he was fighting against his instincts to...well, do something drastic. And like her, he was willing to suppress them.

_How cute._

"Alright Harwood," said Sattler eventually. "The _Haven_'s MAC is still offline and the _Aeros _isn't worth the effort to use any of the other weapons I have. So let's get down to Thunderville. Where are the evacuation ships, and when are they getting here?"

"Evacuation ships?" Ling ventured. "The Covenant's defeated. We-..."

"Commander, chances are that the aliens have blurted out our location to the rest of the xenos," the captain interrupted. "And since apparently making a stand is out of the question (he cast a dirty look at Harwood, but kept talking), all we can do is run. Or we can hope Admiral Cole turns up and pulls off another victory, but-..."

"But as we all well know, that isn't likely to happen," Harwood pointed out. "And before you ask, _Justin_, I'll point out that yes, evacuation ships are on their way. And unlike you, I've gone through the official channels in requesting them."

The captain of the _Aeros _glanced at the scientist, as if to ask what "official channels" existed in regards to a system as desolate as this one. Regardless, he kept quiet. Ling however, did not.

"The slipspace currents..." said the commander slowly. "They got my frigate here faster than I thought possible. Think they'll be around long enough for evacuation craft?"

Harwood remained silent for a moment. Ling didn't know it but she'd raised a delicate topic. The _Aeros _had detected the...flood of the slipstream around Hope and chances were that Sattler knew about it as well. _Something _was going on down there, something that she'd mentioned to Keancros in the message she was still awaiting a response to. The Covenant ship not destructing, the acceleration in slipspace...Were the two linked? Did the Covenant know the answer to the riddle, hence why they'd proceeded to the surface? If it wasn't for SK-018's continued absence, Harwood might have let scientific curiosity take over and allow Sattler to run his show. But for now, confidentiality was important, at least in the minds of the powers that be. Even with the _Wild Endeavour _shipping down men and material, chances were that Thunderville would demand defence rather than offense for the foreseeable future. A future that hopefully involved leaving Chi Mu behind as soon as possible.

"I have reason to believe that evacuation craft will arrive in the near future," said the scientist eventually, answering Ling's question only on the level she was comfortable with. "Until then, all I can say is that we carry on with business as usual."

Sattler snorted. "Right, business as usual. So I guess we can still count on you being an-..."

Harwood cut him off. She wasn't in the mood for cheap jibes. And sensing that Ling was about as reciprocal to her as her superior, she cut the commander off as well. A pre-emptive strike as a CO might call it.

Letting out a sigh and rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Harwood couldn't think of an alternate name.

Glancing around the bridge, the scientist found it practically deserted. Nothing was happening on the _Aeros_, not with the project at a standstill and the ODSTs sent to the surface either dead or missing. She had some time on her hands. Time enough to even use them.

Heading towards a terminal, Harwood proceeded to do so.

* * *

**Settlement 01 ("Thunderville")**

Ardo Turner was irritated.

No, not irritated. Angry. Annoyed. Maybe even livid. Still, however he felt, whatever adjective he used to describe himself, he was able to keep his emotions under control in the best way he knew how. Holding a cigarette in one hand, fiddling with a Covenant pistol in the other and taking solace in the presence of a pile of Grunt corpses in his close proximity.

_See that, methane breathers? _The miner thought bitterly, letting out a puff of benzene, ammonia and at least 3,998 chemicals. _You're not the only gas sucker around here._

Ardo knew it would have been a waste of time to talk to the aliens. He'd learnt of the distinction in names of the three species that attacked Thunderville, but they were all just carcasses now. And somehow he doubted that any of them would be speaking anytime soon. Maybe that was why he sought out their company.

_That's right, keep silent…_the resident of Hope thought, toying with the pistol he'd taken off one of them. _Just keep like that till you draw a gun on me._

Which they wouldn't of course. Another bonus of aliens over armor clad freaks any day.

Soaking up what warmth he could from the sun, Ardo reflected on his mistake on approaching the...thing that had landed yesterday. It was like that day three years ago, the marines walking in like they owned the place. And now history was repeating itself. The 31st had been decimated, Thunderville's population was struggling to cope with their own losses and now a bunch of hotshots were landing all around town. No doubt he was in for another three years of monotony, providing the aliens didn't glass them first.

_Hope they get that freak, the sonofa..._

Letting his train of thought run to a halt and tossing the pistol aside, Ardo felt his frustration cool slightly, fitting in with the breeze coming from the west that was blowing the Grunts' methane towards him. Perhaps it was being unfair, but anything was better than going down the path of "if only." You know, if only that relic hadn't unearthed itself. If only the Covenant hadn't shown up. If only Ellison was still alive. If only this whole war hadn't started, leaving Hope free to-...

"Ardo? Ardo, is that you?"

Drawn out of the realm of "if only" and into the realm of "who's calling my name," was at least able to muster enough intellect not to ask such a question. Because looking straight ahead, he quickly found the source of the sound.

_Tara..._

"Ardo! Ohmygosh, you're alive! You're still alive!" exclaimed the man's sister, running over and hugging him before he could even get to his feet. "OMG! You-..."

_OMG? Who actually still uses that?_

Once again, Ardo didn't voice his thoughts. Firstly, Tara was hugging him so tightly that it was hard enough to breathe, let alone speak. Secondly, it seemed a bit cruel to point out to his sister that she was using archaic language. And thirdly, while he wasn't really in the right state of mind to admit it, he was glad to see her. Glad to see that she was still alive, whilst so many of Thunderville's soldier and civilian population wasn't.

"I've been looking for you all day!" Tara continued. "I never thought you'd still be up here! I mean, what, were you here all night?"

"Yes," Ardo replied blankly, getting his sister to release her grip. "Yeah, I was..."

It seemed stupid now, looking back on it. But back when he'd been fighting for his life, Ardo hadn't really cared. And right now, he didn't really care either. All in all, as the irritation boiled up, not helped by his sister's usual..._idiocy_, Ardo Turner found himself caring about very little.

"Anyway," continued Tara, seemingly oblivious to her brother's state of mind. "Best to get home and-..."

"**And do what?"**

Tara recoiled in surprise, the look in her eyes telling Ardo that he'd crossed a very unpleasant line, one that he'd managed to keep on the right side of for nineteen years. But right now, he'd had it. Every piece of irritation, everything that had happened over the last forty-eight hours, everything he'd repressed, came bursting out.

"**Oh sure Tara, let's go home!" **the teenager yelled.** "Let's twaddle on back to our gingerbread house and let the marines deal with the nasty witches that have fallen from the sky! Let's wait for another artefact to unearth itself! Let's wait for life to sort itself back out so we can get back to monotony! Let's just wait for the Covenant to show up again! Let's make friends with another engineer, so that we can go through the same pain of watching him get burnt alive! Let's just do all that and-..."**

Tara slapped him. Hard.

Recoiling in surprise rather than from the force of the blow, Ardo still found himself rubbing his cheek. It wasn't so much from the pain, but from the notion that his sister had actually _hit _him. His sister, the one who'd never been made miserable by their world, had always seen the positive side of things, was now looking at him in a manner reminiscent of the Elite who'd nearly killed him in the battle.

"Ardo, shut up," said Tara firmly. "Just _shut up_."

Feeling weak in his legs, Ardo did. Collapsing back down to the ground, he began to wonder when was the last time he'd eaten anything.

"Ardo, this can't go on..." Tara sighed, sitting down opposite him in a position that reminded the miner of the clapping games he'd been forced into playing as a child. "We have to do something."

"Do what?" the miner asked dejectedly. "What can we possibly do?"

"Bro, aliens landed yesterday and nearly wiped us out. And chances are that...thing that unearthed itself has something to do with it."

"What, that...relic?" Ardo asked, not liking where this was going. "What does that have to do with this?"

"Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. But after all that's happened, the least we can do is actually _tell _someone."

The miner remained silent. The anger was returning, but he didn't have the energy to express it. All he could hope for right now was to pass out.

After all that had happened, Ardo had almost forgotten about the light. He'd assumed that someone else had noticed it as well, and when he'd arrived back at Thunderville yesterday morning and discovered that wasn't the case, he hadn't sought to draw attention to himself. He hadn't even told Riley about it when he'd had his pay docked. But for him to bring it up now, after all that had happened...well, he could imagine the kind of reaction he might get then.

"Tara, don't even think about it," began Ardo slowly. "Whether that thing has anything to do with the Covenant or not, it's none of our business."

"Of course it's our business!" Tara exclaimed. "We saw it. We were almost _killed _just before we did. And many other people haven't been as lucky as-..."

"Damnit Tara, don't bring Alan into this!"

"...I didn't mention Alan."

Ardo slumped down, dejected. He was hurting. And not in the physical sense.

As distraught as he'd been when Goliath went up in flames, necessity had dictated to Ardo that he lay grief to one side as he fought for his life. But now, in the calm after the storm, he found that grief charging into him from the side. Ardo wasn't exactly without friends on Hope, but necessity had dictated that Thunderville be tight nit. Of all the soldiers who had come from worlds no doubt more appealing than this dirthole, Alan had been an individual he could genuinely call a friend despite the age difference, a man for whom WHAM came naturally. And now, thanks to some alien murderers, he was dead. Gone. And chances were, forgotten. But until that moment came, Ardo found himself hurting all over, unable to deal with this.

"Alan's dead you know..." the miner began dejectedly. "He...he..."

"Yeah, I know," said Tara softly, giving her brother a soft hug. "I heard what happened. And that's why we have to-..."

"Do what?" Ardo asked. "What does the light have to do with that jarhead?"

Tara sighed. Ardo simply sat there. He missed his old sister almost as much as his friend. What else would the Covenant take away from him?

"Ardo, you know Alan hated Hope as much as you do."

"What? When did you-..."

"He told me!" the younger Turner exclaimed. "He told me while you were snoozing away! Told me that the only thing he liked here was his friendship with us. That's why he died Ardo. Not for Hope, not for the UNSC, but for _us_."

Somehow, Ardo believed her. That was why he was willing to let his sister keep talking.

"That's why we have to tell someone about the light," Tara continued. "At the least, we have to save all the other Alans out there."

Ardo snorted. He didn't see himself as a hero. Chances were, as soon as he let slip that he'd seen an alien structure emerge two days ago, he'd be seen as a traitor. But, for all her usual bubbliness, Tara had a point. He owed Alan both friendship and his life. And maybe there was a way he could honour that.

"Alright," said the miner eventually. "Let's go tell them."

* * *

_04/16/10 (Update): Corrected SK-017 typos-all are meant to be SK-018_

_08/05/11 (Update): Corrected spelling issues._


	11. Into the Darkness

,

**Halo: Shadows of Hope**

**Chapter 11: Into the Darkness**

**CCS-class battlecruiser **_**Divine Crusader**_

**Location: Seven miles north of human settlement, upper canyon wall near Forerunner relic**

**Status: Inoperable**

"'Tikawomee! A word! Now!"

Standing on the bridge of his ruined ship, Udo 'Tikawomee let out a growl, inadvertently sending a huragok floating off in the opposite direction. He knew this was coming. Indeed, it was miraculous that it hadn't happened sooner. But now the moment had come and the sangheili had alienated a fellow member of the Covenant. Huragok knew what it was like to be at an individual's beck and call. And in circumstances the shipmaster was coming to despise, 'Tikawomee was as well.

"Devotion…" said the sangheili slowly, turning around to face the Prophet with as little momentum as possible. "How have I earned the honor of your presence?"

"_Incurred _would be a better word, shipmaster," the Prophet snarled, waving a bony hand towards every other individual on the bridge to get them to leave. "At this point in time, I would hardly say you've _earned _anything."

"How tragic…"

Devotion didn't answer at first. Maybe he wanted to wait for the bridge to be cleared out before continuing his tirade. That might have been a good sign, all things considered, knowing that a commander shouldn't be criticized in front of those under his command. On the other hand, it might demonstrate a need for privacy and confidentiality-two things that the sangheili was hardly in the mood for. Either way, he was willing to allow the san 'shyuum to make the next verbal spar. He fought wars with weapons rather than words, but there was a first time for everything.

"Tell me 'Tikawomee…" said the Prophet eventually. "What happened nine years ago?"

The sangheili blinked, but quickly regained his composure. "A war began, my lord. A war that still continues." _A war I'd like to get on with, thank you very much._

"Yes, a war began," continued the Prophet, his mind clearly in the past, as if longing for bygone days. "A war in which we have always maintained the upper hand. A war that progresses in our favor. A war that, on this human-infested world, appears to have encountered a snag."

"My lord, defeat here is not the only one the Covenant has-…"

"Spare me your excuses 'Tikawomee! We learn from our mistakes, not make them again! We don't suffer defeat! Not now! Not ever again!"

And there it was. The first blow.

A few cycles ago, 'Tikawomee might have simply bowed down to the tongue lashing, accepting that it was within a san 'shyuum's right to criticize their partners of the homogeny they operated in. Now though, things had changed. He'd gone from leading a simple exploration ship to one stranded on a human world. And it was all thanks to the Prophet in front of him that this was the case.

"You're referring to Andra 'Serafomee and his forces…" said the shipmaster slowly, drawing himself up to his full height and looking down upon his master. "Referring to how he has failed to report in."

"He's failed to report in because he's dead!" Devotion yelled, unfazed by the height difference. "Our surviving Banshee pilots made that abundantly clear! There was one settlement of those vermin we had to deal with. _One_. And somehow, it's still there!"

"And you're blaming me for that?" asked 'Tikawomee calmly, not willing to back down this time. "I merely sent out 'Serafomee to perform a task. A task that you _personally _ordered carried out, against my inclinations. A task over which I had no control. And since I'm just as well informed as you are, it would have worked if our two flanking forces had shown up to the battle."

"Ah yes, the wayward sons. I don't suppose you've made contact with them yet?"

"No, holy Prophet."

An uneasy silence fell over the bridge and the lack of any other stimuli made the sangheili uneasy. As irritated as he was at Devotion, he at least remembered the Writ of Union. He wasn't to question the san 'shyuum, at least on general principle. But with the Prophet insisting on breaching his territory in the greater scheme of things, 'Tikawomee had resolved to mark it.

"'Tikawomee, I don't need to tell you that we're both in dangerous territory here," said Devotion immediately, turning away from the shipmaster to a communications console. "As far as I'm concerned, you're still at fault, and no amount of kowtowing will change that."

_Kowtowing? Why you stuck up-…_

"I however, have taken the initiative," continued the san 'shyuum, his bony fingers running over the panel's keys in a manner that reminded the sangheili of the grace of a huragok. "And unlike your failed warriors, I shall make contact with them."

"Contact?" 'Tikawomee asked, swallowing the insult made towards his fellow sangheili. "Contact with who?"

"A file of sangheili I sent into the relic not too long ago. A file who will be making a report to us. A file who-…"

"A file that falls under my command!" 'Tikawomee shouted, unable to believe what he was hearing. He strode over to the console, leaning on it so that he could bring his gaze down to the Prophet's level. "Damnit Devotion! You jumped the gun in the assault on the human settlement and you've jumped the gun on-…"

"Actually, I did both at the same time. Prero 'Cleraomee is much more enthused about the tasks given to him than you are shipmaster. Perhaps you could learn something from him."

_I've learnt enough, _'Tikawomee thought bitterly. _I've learnt how malleable some of my fellows can be._

There had been too many mistakes on this mission. Errors of trust were among them. Still, as Devotion found the right frequency for the file he had sent, 'Tikawomee decided to rectify one of them. 'Cleraomee was already in the relic, but by the three suns, he'd damn well explain _why_.

"Major Domo 'Cleraomee," said Devotion. "I request an update of your status."

No update came. Well, there was the hiss of static, but 'Tikawomee had never heard of any culture which responded with that.

"Major domo, I repeat, this is the Prophet of Devotion," the san 'shyuum repeated. "I request an update of your status!"

'Tikawomee remained silent. There was no reason to assume that Devotion had the wrong frequency. Nor was there any reason to assume that there was interference. So what had caused the file to go quiet?

"Major domo, I repeat, this is Devotion! What is your status?"

There was no answer.

And looking at each other uneasily, neither sangheili nor san 'shyuum could provide one either.

* * *

**Chi Mu System, 31****st**** Marine Division Command Center**

**Planet Hope**

Major Howard was old.

Not "too old for this job." Not old from seeing and experiencing too much. Not old as in antiquated. No. In the end, he was just _old_. And after nine years of returning to service, the marine CO knew it. Because as fascinating as the boy's story was, an account of an alien artifact that had unearthed itself two days ago, the major could barely stay awake. One hand was rest on a head covered by thin gray hair and the other doing absolutely nothing.

"And then Tara and I…um, major?"

"Hmm?" Howard asked, snapping to attention as if a student in primary school that had been caught out by the teacher.

"Um…nothing," said the youth awkwardly. "Just…well, nothing."

Howard grimaced. The boy was polite, but he couldn't hide the fact that he'd wondered whether the marine commander had been listening to him. And in all fairness, it was a reasonable query.

_I'm getting too old for this…_

Apparently Howard was old in the cliché sense as well.

Listening to the boy's story, the major wondered why he'd returned to the service nine years ago. Some might call it admirable loyalty to the UNSC, but the notion of a hostile alien species being the incentive made him uneasy. Had he relished the thought of fighting aliens rather than fellow humans? If so, it had certainly come back to bite him in the balls, both on Harvest and now on Hope. He'd lost command of his men in yesterday's battle and if it hadn't been for the timely arrival of the _Wild Endeavour_, he might have lost it. Sattler's impression of him had clearly gone down a few notches and quite frankly, Howard couldn't blame him.

"So after our vehicle was wrecked, we slogged back to Thunderville," said the boy. "And after that…well, the rest is history."

Howard nodded. "Yes…history."

History was bunk, according to someone whose name escaped the major. Relieving yesterday's events in his mind, Howard had to disagree.

"So…" asked the boy. "What now?"

"Now?" the major asked. "Now you can go I guess."

Glancing uneasily at the major and the other individuals in his office, the local quickly obliged.

Lying back in his chair and fighting the urge to close his eyes, Howard didn't regret not being too harsh on him. If he'd been in the same position, suddenly confronted by an alien artifact, there was a strong chance he'd remain silent too. A decade ago it would probably be regarded as a hoax and even now, there was much to be done in Section 2 of ONI to separate fact from fiction in regards to the Covenant (or rather inserting more favorable fiction). There was a strong chance the device might have lured the Covenant to this world, given the beam of light and what it might entail, but even if the boy had informed someone, there was only so much that could have been done to prepare Thunderville for what was to come. And the outcome would have likely been the same regardless.

Especially so since someone else might have known about it…

"Right," declared the major, rubbing his hands together in an attempt to get his circulation going. "Sergeant Jefferson, step forward."

Apart from Howard and the group called Green Team, the ODST was now the only other person in the room. And clad in his ballistic armor minus the helmet, he certainly stood out, what with his curly hair and eyes that weren't those of a soldier's. Yet somehow, he was the only survivor of a team sent from the _Aeros_, and had also survived the same ordeal that all but two members of Romeo Reconnaissance Team had fallen to. It was those two members that had brought the ODST to Howard's attention and in light of what he'd heard from the miner, maybe that was just as well.

"So, sergeant," began the major. "I see that you've recuperated from yesterday's experience."

"Yes sir. I have."

"Indeed. And while we're on the subject, let me thank you for getting my boys back home safely."

"Thank you sir," said the man awkwardly, clearly not used to receiving praise. "Just doing my job."

"Which is _what_, exactly?"

There was it. The punch line. And David Jefferson clearly had no idea how to deal with it.

"Sergeant, from what I've heard from privates Hawkins and Chambers, you weren't exactly most forthcoming," continued Howard, finding himself energy as a talker that had been lacking as a listener. "You were equipped with an unknown type of weapon and had been dispatched north of Thunderville for a purpose you were unwilling to divulge. A dispatchment that I might add I'm not totally ignorant of, what with your team using Warthogs instead of HEVs. And added to all this is the Covenant and the presence of an alien artifact. So, after all that's happened, considering Thunderville and my pay grade, I think you should be forthcoming."

Jefferson remained silent, though did take the time to glance at the five Spartan-IIs that were present. Howard had brought them here in the belief that they should know whatever went down, but he had to admit, their use as status symbols was helpful as well. Remaining silent in front of privates was one thing, but remaining silent of a CO and super soldiers was another. It was only a matter of time until Jefferson cracked. ODST or not, he defiantly didn't strike Howard as soldier material. If anything, he was an enigma.

That was the last thing Hope needed.

"I guess there's nothing for it," said the ODST eventually. "I'll tell you what I know-…"

_Finally…_

"…which isn't much."

…_damnit._

Frustration aside, that didn't surprise Howard overmuch. Secrets had been kept from the start of this war, beginning with Harvest and lasting until Second Base in regards to keeping the existence of the Covenant secret. Not that this had stopped fools such as himself from charging in. And while Jefferson didn't strike the marine as a fool, he still had the unmistakable air of naiveté around him.

"We were dispatched to retrieve something that had launched from the _Aeros_," the ODST began. "Something I'm guessing wasn't meant to have left the ship."

"And why's that?"

"Because they don't send Helljumpers on retrieval," said the sergeant darkly…more darkly than Howard thought was warranted. "Certainly don't arm them at least and refer to the target as…well, a target. And there was the issue of going in by ground rather than air. Something to do with subtlety…"

Howard remained silent, trying to get the measure of the man before him. The ODST didn't seem to be trying to deceive him…at least not in the conventional sense. This resentment, seemingly towards his own unit…it was rare, to say the least.

"The target you were meant to retrieve," said the major eventually. "What do you know about it?"

"Not much. Only that it was designated SK-018."

One of the Spartan-IIs stirred slightly at the mention of this, but Howard barely noticed. All five of the visored behemoths looked the same to him and unlike Jefferson, were completely unreadable. This wasn't an interrogation, but the marine would still follow the modus operandi for such a thing and keep focused on the subject.

"The weapons for your task…" said Howard eventually. "EC-55s or something…"

"Yes, that's correct sir," answered the ODST. "That's their name, and since you know it, I'm guessing the ground pounders told you what they do as well. _Why _we're carrying around electric guns however is something that even I don't know."

_That doesn't surprise me…_

Howard was irritated, but as he rubbed his forehead to stave off an incoming headache, he wasn't sure who at. Jefferson was an enigma, but the major could tell that he'd said all he knew and that his lack of information was the will of the powers that were. Unfortunately, knowing that Harwood was the said power, there was the realization that she wouldn't be any more forthcoming.

"That's all sergeant," said the marine eventually, lying back in his chair and letting his fingers run through its interior padding (so much for a stitch in time). "You're dismissed."

Jefferson saluted, but Howard didn't notice. He was too tired to care about such things.

_Option one's no good, the ODST said everything he knew. Option two involves talking to Harwood, and that's equally useless. So what about option three?_

"Option three," its name originating from 3.5 seconds in the past, had yet to really take hold in the major's mind. Out of everything the sergeant had told him, from "lightning guns" to Helljumpers not actually jumping at all, only two things matched up-the drop pod and the artifact. The miner had seen the pod come down, and minutes later, saw something _else _come up. It might have been coincidence and indeed, if the pod was meant to unearth an alien relic, why send armed soldiers to retrieve it? Nevertheless, Howard was becoming more and more sure that the two were related. And at the least, with Tunderville having barely survived a Covenant assault, he wanted to get some answers before the next one came. Which it would. Of that he had no doubt.

"Green Leader," said the marine eventually. "Please step forward."

With silence Howard hadn't thought possible, the Spartan-II did.

_Spartans…good thing I'm not from Athens, _thought the marine, looking up at the armored behemoth that, until yesterday, he wasn't sure really existed. He didn't even know their names and calling for "Green Leader" had been dictated by the fact that they all looked alike. These super soldiers were as much a mystery as the actions on the _Aeros_. Difference was, after hearing tales of their actions on the battlefield, they were a mystery he was willing to overlook.

"Name please," said the major, looking up at the squad leader. "And rank."

"Joshua-029, petty officer second class."

_Joshua-029? That's his _name_?_

"Well, petty officer, I think it's fair to say that there are some questions that need answering. And after hearing about your exploits in saving my boys yesterday, you seem like the best bet in uncovering them."

"Thank you sir. I'll prep my team and-…"

"No. You won't."

Howard sat forward, resting his hands on the smooth wood of his desk. "This isn't a job for your team, petty officer. I understand that you work well as one, but all five of you are quite noticeable figures. I don't know if you've noticed, but every soldier and civilian in this settlement is looking up to you. All five of you disappear and…"

Howard trailed off, waiting for the petty officer to complete his sentence. He remained silent though, as did the rest of Green Team. Maybe they understood. Maybe they didn't question orders. Or maybe it was time to stop acting the role of drama king and give some proper orders.  
"Green Leader, I want you to assign a member of your team to lead a force of marines to the artifact. The people will have their heroes here, while if need be, those in the field will have a hero as well."

"Yes sir. May I ask-…"

"I'll go."

After seeing the formality of…Joshua, after watching him play "strong and silent" in a manner most would deem unnatural, the interruption came as quite a surprise to the major. It came as a surprise to Green Leader as well, both CO and NCO watching one of the latter's number stride forward.

_Wait a minute. Was that the one who stirred when Jefferson mentioned-…_

"I'll go," the Spartan-II repeated. "You can trust me to-…"

"No Isaac, I can't," interrupted Green Leader, his gold visor mirroring his squadmate's own-unreadable and stoic. "You've become a loose cannon, and from what I've heard, coming down here hasn't helped. No, Green Three will go."

"Grace? She's hardly the most proficient in combat."

"Hopefully there won't be any."

Howard didn't know what to make of this. It wasn't good form for a squad leader to criticize his men in front of others. On the other hand, Green Leader was more decisive than his cool actions had implied. Well, almost. Because all five Spartan-IIs were now looking at him, expecting a decision. And the major knew it.

_No turning back now, _thought the major, feeling more uncomfortable than he should have. _You started this. Now finish it…_

"Green Three, you will lead a team into the relic. Leave as soon as you're ready."

* * *

**Individual: SK-018**

**Location: Alien artefact**

**Status: Waiting**

SK-018 was bored.

It was strange really. Through years of suspension, he knew what it was like for time to slow down, to be in a trickle rather than a rapid. Yet here he was, pacing around the relic's control room like a caged animal, waiting for escape to be delivered rather than achieved. He'd achieved his first escape to be sure, but now, events were beyond his control. All he could do was wait, pace-...

"Oh Reclaimer, you can't imagine how intriguing this is."

...and wish the Monitor would shut up.

Right now, Zealous Enigma certainly wasn't a mystery anymore and he certainly wasn't being zealous about anything. Well, if flying around and chatting like a hyperactive space squirrel was part of its job description, then it was doing it perfectly, but somehow, the Reclaimer doubted this was the case. Its job was to guard this artefact and for whatever reason, serve humans that entered it while making disparaging comments on "interlopers." But with the Covenant dealt with in the short term, and the UNSC likely unaware that this place even existed, Enigma was apparently taking a day off.

_How typical. Weird alien race makes an advanced AI and doesn't even work in an off switch._

The charging up process was slow. Too slow. And having done everything in his power to actually get it started, the only thing Enigma was good for right now was a game of gravball. Still, that required at least two players and somehow SK-018 doubted that anyone else would be turning up. Or at least he hoped so. While the Covenant and UNSC were still likely at each other's throats in some capacity, the team he'd disposed of yesterday was unlikely to have been forgotten by the aliens. Once this device had finished powering up, it would all be a moot point, but until then...well, suffice to say, "then" was a long way off. And yakking on about some parasitical lifeform, Enigma was sending "then" in the opposite direction of "soon."

"My creators, after much consideration-..."

_Shut up shut up shut up!_

The human knew the story of this place from both the Monitor and alien's log on the Covenant ship. He'd even accepted it. So all in all, Enigma was doing nothing but telling him what he already knew. Still, as long as the Monitor thought he was something else, as long as this facility continued the charging process, he'd have to remain quiet. It had taken great willpower not to ask how long it would take for this place to charge up, almost as much as to not simply shut Enigma up and be done with it. Eye spy was useless, with the chamber being nothing but gray, gray and more gray. So in the end, all that was left to do but-...

"Reclaimer? Were you expecting company?"

_...no._

Remaining silent, the human glanced back at the Monitor, now staring at him with what he supposed was a perplexed expression. Not that the floating light bulb gave much away. Taking a cue from that, SK-018 tried to remain as passive as possible.

"No, I'm not. Why?"

"Oh...well, there's a primitive vehicle approaching this structure. It's bearing fellow Reclaimers onboard."

The Reclaimer's heart skipped a beat...or would have done if his metallic components allowed such a thing. Humans. Actual humans were bearing down on him, an encapsulated...being. This couldn't get any worse.

"Show me," said the Reclaimer hoarsely. "Show me the vehicle."

As the image projected from Enigma's blue eye took form, the human recognised the single vehicle displayed as a Cougar-an AFV that could double as a troop transport.

_Great. Now I've got both sides breathing down my neck._

One Cougar alone didn't represent much of a threat-the bodies of the Elites were testament to that. Still, SK-018 was well aware of the implications-that at best the UNSC forces on this planet had the breathing room to investigate this relic, or at worst, the breathing room to resume their hunt for him. How much they knew was unknown, but either way, "then's" distance from "soon" was now becoming even more pressing. What with marines on the ground, a warship in the sky, and...

_Maybe that's all I need._

SK-018 had helped the people of this planet a day ago. Now, watching the vehicle through Enigma's hologram while remembering one of the installation's functions the AI had mentioned in its rambling...

...Maybe he could get his species to do something for him in return.

* * *

**31****st**** Marine Division Command Center**

"Green Three to home base. We've arrived at the relic, over."

"Status acknowledged Green Three. Move into relic. Keep in touch, out."

Nine years ago, John-117 had acknowledged that waiting was the hardest part of any operation. Nine years after such a statement was made, Joshua-029 knew that the truth of that statement hadn't diminished. And somehow, keeping in touch with Grace in the command center's communications room made the job even worse. Courtesy of helmet recorders, Green Leader could see everything that Grace and the marines could see, along with hearing it. And right now, he would have given anything to trade the senses of sight and sound for touch.

"Well?" came a sarcastic voice. "Are they there yet?"

"Yes Isaac, they are. Not shut it."

Clearly, Green 5 was as agitated as Josh was, though unlike the rest of Green Team, he was having trouble hiding it. More validation of the team leader's decision not to send Isaac with the squad rather than Grace. Bad enough that he'd drawn his weapon on a civilian, but now he was continuing to draw attention to himself in the communications room.

_Well, to be fair, we all are. But he doesn't have to exacerbate the status quo._

Joshua could understand Howard's reasoning, even if he didn't like it. But if he had to remain in Thunderville, to continue what was essentially the same waiting game that had begun on the _Wild Endeavour_, then at least he could keep in contact with Grace. Spartan-IIs worked in teams, and training had taught them that a little bit of teamwork was better than none at all.

"Nice place…" came the voice of a marine, his voice pattern coming up on the screen labeled Pvt. Hawkins. "Shame there's no welcome mat."

"Cut the chatter," said Grace, taking the words right out of Joshua's mouth. "We're here to gather intelligence, not sightsee."

"…aren't they one and the same?"

No-one answered on Grace's end, and Isaac managed to remain silent also. All in all, Josh wasn't surprised. He wasn't being given a very good view in a room seven miles from the alien artifact, but from what he could see via the video feed, it was a sight to behold. Smooth, gray, majestic…if the Covenant had come to Hope simply for the structure's aesthetics, Green Leader supposed he couldn't blame them. Yet if the miner was to be believed, it had at least one function. And humanity was going to find out what others it might have.

"Entering the structure," said Grace, the Spartan-II taking point as the squad entered the relic, their rifles' torches illuminating its gloomy interior. "We'll keep in-…"

Joshua supposed that Green 3 intended to end her sentence with "touch." But with all the screens suddenly displaying static, and his line of contact being cut off, she certainly wasn't keeping in touch. Nor was he.

"Green Three?" the Spartan-II asked. "What's your status, over?"

Isaac leant forward alongside his squad leader, Vinh and Anton drawing near too. As for the rest of the comm. center…well, Josh couldn't give a damn right now.

"Grace?" the Spartan-II repeated. "What's your status, over?"

There wasn't any response. Not from Grace or the ground pounders at least. Leaning closer than any other commando however, Vinh was another story.

"Looks like interference," she said, peering down at the console and fiddling with some buttons. "Try burst transmission. Maybe we can cut through it."

"Interference limited to a structure's interior?" Anton asked.

"Don't judge relics by our own standards, Green Two. It's simply asking for defeat."

Liking neither defeat nor being cut off from contact, Joshua took hold of the microphone again. "Green Three, this is Green Leader. I'm using burst transmission right now. If you can receive this, please respond in kind."

"Green Leader…Three…hear you…switching…transmission."

"It doesn't work," said Isaac bluntly. "Figures."

"Green Three, this is Green Leader," continued the Spartan-II, ignoring Green 5. I hear you barely. Keep in voice contact, your visual feed is still down."

"…wilco."

No plan survived contact with the enemy. This one hadn't even survived contact with an asset.

"The interior…ancient…elegant…" continued Grace, Green Team hanging on her every word with trepidation that was masked to all but themselves. "Bit…down…weathered…sections of…collapsed."

"Sounds like it's in bad shape," murmured Vinh. "How long has it been here?"

"Longer than we have, that's for sure," answered Anton. "Covies were studying us before first contact was made, who knows how long they've been able to travel through space."

"But why leave a relic here?" Vinh asked. "If it's useful, why abandon it? And if it isn't, why come back for it?"

Joshua remained silent. He didn't have an answer for Vinh and right now, he was more interested in receiving information than giving it. Grace and the marines could provide a detailed account once they returned to Thunderville, but Major Howard wanted a report ASAP. So as soon as this recon was done, the Spartan-II would report to him and hopefully end up back in the field in the process.

"…place…creeps," came the voice of a jarhead. "…really…"

"Form up! Covies!"

_What? What on-…_

"…down soldier…dead."

"Grace?" Joshua asked. "What have you got for me?"

"…venant bodies," answered Green Three. "Elites. About…of them."

"Covenant?" Josh asked. "Someone beat you to the kill?"

"…to say. I…wait…wait!"

Joshua didn't know whether Grace was talking to him or to the marines under her command. In a way, it didn't matter. All that _did _matter was that the sound of gunfire was being transmitted.

_Grace? Grace!_

The NCO didn't know that everyone else in the comm. room was crowding around. If he had, he wouldn't have cared either.

"Contact! Contact!"

"…bad dream!"

"Fire! Fi…it…"

"Green Three, respond!" Joshua yelled, all thoughts of composure forgotten. "What's your status!"

"…bullets…nothing!"

"Oh God…me!"

It was strange really, how for all the fragmented exclamations, the sound of gunfire rang out crystal clear. Gunfire that was entirely from MA5Bs, without any from that of plasma weapons. Something, or someone, was killing the jarheads and given the rapid diminishment in exclamations and gunfire, was exceptionally efficient at it as well.

_Grace didn't call out though. Maybe she…_

Maybe nothing. She was a Spartan-II, and well above letting fear get to her. Or maybe, she had been the first one to go down.

"Please…please!"

And then, with a sickening _crack _concluding the symphony of death and destruction, it was over.

At first, Joshua said nothing. Nor did anyone else in the room for that matter. For the first time in nine years, he didn't know what to do. Silence on Grace's end, an enemy to both humans and Covenant…for the first time in his life, he didn't know who he was meant to fight, or how to even do so. And if it wasn't for the source of the words that came down the line, he might have welcomed them. Anything was better than the suffocating silence descending around him, his armor feeling like a tomb…

"Send a message to your masters," rasped the voice. "Their destruction is by my will…and I am its own instrument."

…well, almost anything.

"Who is this?" Vinh asked into the microphone. "Identify yourself!"

Unsurprisingly, no response came. And no less unexpectedly, no-one else had anything to say.

"Those words…" Anton whispered. "I remember them…"

_Who doesn't? _Joshua wondered, remembering exactly what Green 2 was. The words that the Covenant had uttered nearly a decade ago, the words that every human being in the galaxy was familiar with. Words that…

_They weren't the same. Similar, but different._

Psychological warfare…and unlike receiving the address on Reach, it was working.

_Well, we'll see how long that lasts._

"Alright," said the petty officer slowly, turning to face those assembled before him. "Vinh, start prepping our squad. Anton, you-…"

"Wait a minute," came the voice of one of the comm. operators. "You're moving out? Without clearing it with major-…"

"Howard sent one of my men alone, and now I've lost contact," interrupted Green Leader, feeling as much irritation with the spineless runt as he did with Howard right now. "Like it or not, I'm bringing everyone I can back here and-…"

"Wait a minute," interrupted Anton. "Where's Isaac?"

"…what?"

Scanning the room with a glance, Joshua's irritation transformed into outright rage. Green Five was nowhere to be seen.

"Isaac?" the NCO asked, activating his suit's own radio. "Isaac!"

Unbelievable. Grace, and then marines were MIA and Green Five had taken it upon himself to have the same acronym applied to him as well. And turning back to Vinh and Anton, wondering how on earth the Spartan-II could have slipped away unnoticed, Joshua was finding it very hard not to change that status to KIA.

"Well?" Anton asked. "What now?"

Green Leader remained silent. Right now, he didn't know.

And all the while, the voice repeated itself in his mind…

"_Send a message to your masters. Their destruction is by my will…and I am its own instrument."_

* * *

**United Nations Space Command Priority Transmission (classified designation) **

**Encryption Code: Black**

**Public Key: file/excised access Omega**

**From: Dr. Mina Harwood, Office of Naval Intelligence Section 3 (civilian identification number classified)**

**To: Codename: KEANCROS**

**Subject: Update**

**Classification: RESTRICTED (BGX Directive)**

_/start file/_

_I have to be brief here, so I'll get to the point. Things have gone to hell here on Hope. The defensive forces were attacked by the Covenant yesterday and it was only from the arrival of a UNSC frigate that the people planetside are still alive. No, I didn't ask for it. I'm still waiting for a response from you. I want confirmation that the ships from Venatir are on their way. I also want permission to break confidentiality on Project: Spectre and call reinforcements. They're here anyway thanks to Sattler and he's of the right mind. Until you respond though, I have to act differently._

_Respond ASAP, spook. People are dying. And at least part of that is due to what we started._

_/end file/ _

* * *

Keancros was close to Hope. But only the planet. The emotion had been well and truly cut out three years ago, if not earlier. Harwood however, still clung onto it. Both planet and emotion. And both were truly screwed.

Keancros would know. He was closer to the planet than anyone imagined…

It was almost amusing really. For all her credentials, Harwood was still nothing more than a dumb blonde who was unable to grasp the larger picture. Well, let her ramble on. Confidentiality was compromised long before the frigate turned up. In a sense, it was compromised from the start. Not that Harwood could grasp it. Hopefully she never would.

It mattered little though. The subject had made first contact.

Now all that was left to be done was watch and wait.

* * *

_A/N_

_Update (04/09/2011): Corrected SK-017 typos-all are meant to be SK-018._

_Update (08/05/2011): Corrected spelling error._


	12. Shadow of the Past

.

**Halo: Shadows of Hope**

**Chapter 12: Shadow of the Past**

**M12 LRV Warthog **

**Driver: Petty Officer Second Class Isaac-039**

**Location: Plains north of Settlement 01 ("Thunderville")**

There was an old saying that pertained to being off the rock, through the bush and finding nothing but jackal. Right now, driving north in a commandeered Warthog, Isaac was glad that the metaphor wasn't being applied to him. For starters, there was no rock here, just dirt. In light of yesterday's rain, that made it easy to trace the route made by the Cougar, its tracks visible in the muddy terrain. Terrain that wasn't covered by bush, hence invalidating the second part of the metaphor. And since jackals tended to be rather aggressive to humans in this day and age, the Spartan-II was glad not to find them. Well, to be fair, they probably wouldn't want to meet a genetically enhanced super-soldier either, but even so…

_Focus Isaac. Just focus._

Driving over a pothole that had been hidden by sediment, the NCO was finding it quite hard to focus right now, metaphors or no metaphors. It had been a spur of the moment thing really, heading out of the command center when the fighting started and the voice declared its ultimatum. After everything that had happened, what with abnormally fast frigates, shifty Helljumpers and alien relics, Isaac wasn't willing to wait for Joshua to follow protocol and get clearance from a major who thought that dividing Green Team was a good idea. His insubordination would cost him, but that was nothing to what idiocy might have cost Grace and the marines under her command. So, distracted as he was in regards to what was both behind and in front of him, Isaac pressed on. Pressed on even when he entered the valleys. Pressed on even when he knew that he could meet the same fate as Jefferson's squad. Pressed on even when he approached the base of the relic, its structure standing like a mast above the dustball ship of Hope, sailing its way around Chi Mu in a perpetual loop.

Somehow, it was the relic that made him the most uneasy.

Grace had described the relic as she'd approached and via the video feed, Isaac had managed to get a look at it. But looking at it now-smooth, gray, unblemished, standing like a silent sentinel over this lifeless world…well, it was eerie, to say the least. Covenant, insurrectionists…they were easy to understand. They were enemies. But this…thing, this…device, its function and, if it had any, allegiance unknown…well, that was something else. Something that Isaac wasn't sure how to handle.

_Focus, soldier. Just move forward._

Repetition, but it still worked. Someone, or some_thing _was inside the relic. A being apparently hostile to both humans and Covenant. Something that wished Grace harm and would almost certainly wish Isaac harm as well. A comforting thought in a sense, given that unlike the relic, its occupant was a distinct enemy. And cradling his assault rifle in his hands, moving towards its entrance and the nearby Cougar, Isaac prepared to deal with it.

"Son…of a bitch…"

…And apparently something else.

Resting the rifle against his shoulder in a firing position, Isaac didn't need prompting to know that he wasn't alone out here. Someone was by the Cougar, on the opposite side of it. Someone who wasn't fighting fit given the sound of things. Still, that was no reason to let down his guard. So, approaching its far side by going around its rear, Isaac expected the worst.

With the individual drawing a pistol on him, he got it.

It happened fast…so fast that Isaac barely even knew that it, whatever _it _was, had happened. Kind of like when he first wore the MJOLNIR Mk. IV, when he and the rest of his comrades could barely move with any subtlety. Either way, in less than a second, he found himself staring down at a marine wielding a M6C sidearm minus its firing chamber. A firing chamber that was currently residing in Isaac's left hand while he held his rifle in the other. A simple disarming technique, one that had prevented the Spartan-II from being on the receiving end of a bullet.

"What the…?" the marine asked. "How did…how did…"

Dropping the firing chamber and using his spare hand to grab the jarhead by his neck, Isaac shut him up. After all that had happened, he wasn't in the mood for any bullshit. Not even from men who had a shoulder that was a bloody mess.

"Talk," snarled the NCO. "Now."

"I…I don't…"

The marine shut up. Being dropped on the ground tended to prompt a break in sentences.

"I don't have much time here," said Isaac, maintaining the upper hand. "I can tell that you're not the one who wiped out your team. I can also tell that you're wounded and that your name is Private Hawkins. However, unless you elaborate on what I know, I may have to start making assumptions. And if I start doing that…"

Isaac trailed off. It wasn't the most eloquent of threats, but years of dealing with Innies had taught him that seven feet tall super soldiers didn't need to be when it came to interrogation. Of course, this interrogation wouldn't end with the man (scratch that, _kid_) receiving a bullet between the eyes, but still, it seemed best to fall back into the same tactics.

Adaptable tactics would have to wait for when he entered the structure.

"You…you here to rescue me?" the kid asked.

"Maybe. But first I have to know if there's anyone else to rescue. And why, if there isn't, that you're the only one who _does _need rescuing."

Hawkins swallowed. He was pale and the lack of a helmet allowed his messy hair to stand out. Eventually he spoke.

"I…I don't know what happened…" the marine began. "I mean…we found some Covie bodies…Elites. Then…something attacked us."

"What did?" Isaac asked. He knew all of this already. It was only now that he was moving on to the important stuff.

"Something…humanoid," Hawkins rasped, clearly plagued by the memories. "It was fast…very fast. About as fast as you. We could barely hit it and when we did, bullets did nothing."

"Bullets don't do much against the Covenant either," murmured Isaac, not sure what to make of this. It sounded bad, but not overly worse than what he'd faced himself over the last nine years.

"Trust me man, it was no Covie. I got out, but…well, don't know whether the others did."

Exhaling as he leant back against the Cougar, Private Hawkins clearly didn't have anything else to say. His mind pounding as he processed the information, Isaac didn't have anything to say either.

The marine's account matched what the Spartan-II had heard back at the command center. Yet there were still holes in his account. He was wounded, sure, and a cauterized wound at that, but how had he escaped? Why him and not…well, Grace, for instance? Why was Hawkins still alive after an attack that had left his squad dead or incapacitated?

_Then again, why would he lie? Unless he was somehow in contact with the assailant…_

Well, if he was, then he probably would have tried to get out of the recon mission, considering that the marines didn't need to be guided to the slaughterhouse by a double agent. For now, Isaac would take the private at his word. And if he _was _lying…well, treating him like an Innie would sort that out.

"The Cougar…" said Isaac eventually. "Does it work?"

"Huh?" Hawkins asked, his eyes showing anything but comprehension.

"The Cougar," Isaac repeated. "Can you drive it?"

"I…I guess," the marine rasped. "Why?"

"Because if I'm not out of the relic in fifteen minutes, leave without me. Until then, stay here and keep silent. No radio contact."

Hawkins was clearly just as confused, not understanding that Isaac didn't want Josh or Howard to be yelling at him from a base seven miles away. They could sweat it out. Until then…well, for starters he could ask why Hawkins was drawing out a weapon from the back of the Cougar. The same type of weapon that Jefferson had described.

"An EC-55?" the Spartan-II asked. "Jefferson's?"

"No, we found more ODSTs on the way here," said Hawkins. "Well, at least their body parts. Their weapons though…"

Isaac remained silent for a few moments, then took the weapon in his hands. It was large, bulky and from what he'd heard of Romeo Team's skirmish, only good for a lightshow. Still, he strapped it to his back via its magnetic weapon strips. Better to have something and not need it, than need it yet not have it.

"Alright," said Isaac. "Stay here. I'll be back."

Entering the gloom of the relic, knowing that he'd be falling out of radio contact, Isaac couldn't help but slightly doubt that statement.

* * *

**31****st**** Marine Division Command Center**

Joshua was angry.

That much, the Spartan knew. _Why_ he was angry was something else, the reason being that he didn't know who he should be angry with. Howard or Isaac. Still, with the major being as stubborn as a grumpy gueta, most of his frustration was directed towards the former.

"Sir, it's a simple retrieval operation. In and out before-…"

"I said **no!**" Howard yelled, thumping down a fist on his desk. "Petty officer, I understand your-…"

"There's three of us sir. We can handle-…"

"I'm sure that's what your comrade thought," interrupted the major. "The same Spartan-II who we've lost contact and we have every right to assume is deceased."

_Spartans never die, we just go missing in action, _thought Joshua bitterly, fighting back the urge to say it and having a flash of those who actually had died. Sam, Daisy, likely Jerome, Douglas and Alice as well. Too many as far as he was concerned. And he'd be damned if he'd let Grace join their ranks under his watch. Oh, and Isaac for that matter.

_Isaac…damnit, what's come over you?_

Joshua didn't know. The entire star system reeked of what he'd smelt seventeen years ago. However, in that time, he'd gotten used to it and having passed through augmentation and not done a runner, Green 5 should have as well. Apparently though, such hopes were ill founded. And right now, the leader of Green Team suspected that this might have something to do with Howard's reluctance to send out a retrieval team.

"Son, I understand your reluctance to leave a fellow soldier behind," continued the major, the tone of his voice indicating he didn't understand the intensity of what the NCO was feeling at all. "But understand that even with the _Wild Endeavour_'s resupplying, we only have so many vehicles and men to spare. And after hearing of your exploits yesterday, I can honestly say that the three of you are worth more than what we lost."

"But Isaac isn't lost," Vinh pointed out, reminding Joshua that she and Anton were indeed in the same room as him. "He may be missing, but-…"

"If he returns, I'll decide whether he deserves a medal or a reprimand," interrupted Howard. "Until then, Green Team is under orders to remain on station. The Covenant is still a threat, and as eerie as the relic and its…occupant are, the aliens are a larger threat. Now if there's anything else you'd like to add…"

"…no sir. No there isn't."

Joshua was almost ashamed of how his anger was fading. He disagreed with Howard's reasoning, just as much as he had disagreed that sending only one Spartan-II to the relic was an erroneous course of action. Still, in such uncertain times, all he could do now was follow orders. And looking at Vinh and Anton, standing by their leader silently, it was clear that it was all they could do as well.

_Be safe Grace, _thought Green Leader to himself. _Be safe for all of us._

Sighing as he led his team back outside the command center, Joshua supposed he should wish the same for Isaac as well.

* * *

**CCS-class battlecruiser **_**Divine Crusader**_

**Location: Seven miles north of human settlement, upper canyon wall near Forerunner relic**

**Status: Inoperable**

"Major Domo 'Cleraomee, this is the Prophet of Devotion! In the name of the gods, respond to this signal! I repeat, this is-…"

Both san 'shyuum and sangheili could be patient to a fault, but with long lifespans and a longer recorded history, it was the former species that could last longer. It was therefore perhaps not much of a surprise that Devotion was still trying to get in touch with the sangheili he had sent into the relic, still demanding a response that 'Tikawomee knew would never come. His people didn't choose to ignore their leaders, or if they did, they weren't worthy of the time and effort that Devotion was investing. As such, it was clear that in all likelihood, 'Cleraomee and his followers had departed this plane of existence. All that was left to do was for Devotion to accept that and allow 'Tikawomee to begin preparations for the process that would give the _Divine Crusader _time to remember them properly. Which, as the situation was, would mean much more waiting than the shipmaster was willing to invest.

"Major Domo, this is-…"

"My liege, leave it," interrupted 'Tikawomee. "It's no use. All that's left for us to do is-…"

"Be quiet you mud wasp!" the Prophet exclaimed, not even glancing around from the bridge's communicator. "Go do something useful rather than display your lack of faith!"

'Tikawomee's gaze narrowed, even if Devotion couldn't see it. Faith had nothing to do with this. And even if that were the case, the san 'shyuum was mixing up faith with duty. Often the two went hand in hand, but sometimes, a line had to be drawn. And the sangheili was increasingly feeling that the two commanders were on different sides of it.

"Major Domo, this is-…"

_That's it…_

"I take my leave," said 'Tikawomee. "Let me know if the gods decide to answer your prayers."

Devotion didn't even stop his rhetoric due to the shipmaster's interruption or even glance in his direction as the sangheili made his way to his personal quarters. That was just as well really. 'Tikawomee needed time to think, and although the Writ of Union left thinking to the san 'shyuum, it didn't totally prohibit the Covenant's backbone from doing so.

_We are the arm of the Prophets, _the sangheili thought to himself as he sat down at his personal console. _But we can use our arms in other ways…_

It was perhaps ironic that the shipmaster was about to do the same thing as Devotion, namely to contact his missing brothers. However, while the Prophet was fixated on a mere file, 'Tikawomee's thoughts were with an entire legion. Well, at least two thirds of it. 'Serafomee's main force had been wiped out, but that still left two thirds of his legion missing.

"To all remaining forces of the J'ma Legion, this is Shipmaster Udo 'Tikawomee," uttered the sangheili, hoping that the Forerunners would guide his voice in a manner they had failed to do with Devotion's. "To any of my brothers receiving this message, please respond immediately."

As rationality dictated, there was no answer. If those forces were able to get in touch with the _Divine Crusader_, they would have done so by now. Yet rationality also dictated that it should have been impossible for the humans to be the cause. They'd barely been able to hold off a frontal assault, let alone divert resources to deal with flanking forces. Yet why on Sanghelios were the legion's remnants not answering?

"To all remaining forces of the-…"

'Tikawomee trailed off. Unlike Devotion, his patience had its limits.

It was worth a try, the sangheili reasoned, however slim the chances of contact were. In the precarious situation the shipmaster found himself in, he'd need as many warriors as possible. The humans maintained space superiority and were in possession of both their settlement and, if 'Cleraomee's silence was anything to go by, the relic as well. In contrast, 'Tikawomee only had the remaining members of his crew onboard. And they'd been left out of the attack force for a reason, and not a necessarily positive one at that. And coupled with this, he was still subservient to a Prophet who either could not, or would not, see the bigger picture.

_So maybe I should move on to the canvass then…_

'Tikawomee knew he was embarking down a dangerous line of thought, possibly even a heretical one. Nevertheless, he'd planned for this moment, having anticipated it cycles ago. It was a moment that he'd hoped wouldn't come to pass. After all, he'd been tasked with searching for Forerunner relics and lo and behold, he'd actually found one. And if he succeeded in claiming it for the Covenant Empire, he'd be free to reap the glory of such a conquest.

On the other hand, he couldn't bathe in glory if he was dead. And though he'd rather die with honor than live without it, there was more to this than pride right now. Vermin were on this world, the same vermin who sought to torch every relic of the gods that they found. What good would dying do if it didn't safeguard the artifact? By the gods, the humans were probably already defiling the artifact right now. And simply put, 'Tikawomee didn't have enough warriors to stop them.

_No more, _thought the sangheili, feeling his blood boil at the idea of human feet within the relic. _It stops. Right here, right now._

Returning to his console, he sent out a new message. A message that Devotion wouldn't approve of, but one that 'Tikawomee knew was absolutely necessary.

Whether the cloaked figure behind him knew that was another matter entirely…

* * *

**Unidentified alien relic (interior)**

A picture was apparently worth a thousand words. But despite having been robbed of pictures of the relic's interior back at Thunderville, the team sent into the structure had done a pretty good job of summing it up in much less than a thousand utterances. Doom and gloom aside, it was everything Isaac expected from a piece of ancient architecture. Its walls were weathered, chasms had opened up in the hallway…oh, and there was the issue that the walls were marked with bullet holes. Bullets no doubt fired by the once living individuals further up ahead.

_So this is where it went down…_the Spartan-II thought to himself, directing his rifle's flashlight towards the soldiers' bodies. _Guess they didn't get very far._

Nor did the Elites for that matter, no doubt the same ones that Grace had mentioned earlier. And, like the bodies of the humans, they shared the same anomaly…

…no blood.

Well, maybe that wasn't much of an anomaly. Plasma had a way of cauterizing wounds and the Covenant could kill so quickly that many people were dead before they even got a chance to bleed. And there was also Hawkins, whose shoulder wound had been cauterized as well. And moving over towards the bodies, Isaac found they were no different. Human, alien, whatever the species, each had died the same way-a wound from a blade.

_A rogue Covie? _Isaac wondered, staring into the glassy eyes of an Elite who had a hole on both sides of its throat. _An energy sword maybe?_

That was possible, but that still didn't explain why there was only a single entry wound on each body whilst Covenant energy swords possessed two blades. Not that that precluded the use of another type of energy weapon, such as an energy cutlass. But to Isaac's knowledge, only Grunts and Jackals used them and somehow, he couldn't see a member of either species carrying out murder on this magnitude. Well, there was no use worrying about it. Not when Isaac had plenty to worry about in regards to not only the assailant, but also Grace. A Spartan whose body was notably absent.

Right now, Isaac didn't know whether that was a good or bad thing. Especially since-…

"Honestly Reclaimer, this was completely uncalled for!"

…he was hearing computerized voices.

Rising to his feet and drawing his rifle forward, Isaac honed in on the sound. He wasn't completely sure where it had come from, but as the only way to go was either forward or down into the structure's depths, the first option was the only reasonable one. And, as the voices grew louder, evidently the correct one as well.

"Enigma, just fly off and shut-…"

"…a violation of protocol! This is a complete overreaction against your fellow Reclaimers!"

_Reclaimers? What on Earth…_

Isaac shook it off. He wasn't on Earth. He was on a world many light years from it, and was pretty sure that humanity's homeworld didn't have any alien relics lying in wait to be discovered.

"I dealt with the Covenant, didn't I? You didn't throw a hissy fit about _them_!"

"Interlopers are one thing. Authorized users are another!"

It was the first voice that was more interesting. Both individuals were speaking in English, given the lack of need for his MJOLNIR's translation software, but while the second was computerized, the first was a strange mix of organic and metallic vocals. Like…well, it was unlike anything Isaac had ever heard. Yet somehow, it felt familiar…

_An impossibility, _Green 5 reminded himself. _Just keep moving…_

That, he did. A bit slower than he would have cared for, but right now he didn't want to rush into things. Not when he could be running into an individual who had been able to take out a Covenant file and marine squad with a precision that Isaac had only seen his fellow commandos match.

"…the uses of this place are _not _a trifle! The last time this installation was used-…"

"This place only has _one _use! Or at least only one _useful _function. And since you've guided me to it, ask yourself what use _you _still have!"

"My use is ahhh!"

Isaac stopped short. He didn't know _how _it had happened, but he certainly knew _what _had happened. Whatever the species, whatever the circumstances, a sentence was only cut short like that for one reason…prevention of ever speaking again.

"Your use to me has expired…" the human-machine voice hissed, its composition sending a chill down the Spartan's spine. "Hopefully you'll prove to be more of an asset in the hereafter."

There was no response from the second speaker. From what he had just heard, and from what he was hearing now as a series of _clanks _reverberated throughout the structure, Isaac knew there never would be. And knowing that he may not get another chance to confront such a cold-blooded killer, he began to run. Past symbols, past pitfalls, past the sparks of light that shone through the relic's gloom.

Rounding a corner, he found what he sought. And in such a moment, the NCO did the only thing his mind would let him do-raise his rifle and shout "freeze!"

Watching the humanoid turn towards him, it was clear that it had worked.

Isaac was caught offguard, so didn't mention the humanoid tossing a small orb with a hole torn through it aside with his left hand while something retracted into the gauntlet of his right. His (he assumed it was a he) body was entirely covered in armor, that of a sleek, polished kind that the Spartan wouldn't have thought possible, given that armor went hand in hand with combat. The only exception was a thin red strip near where the eyes would be located on the average human. Most striking perhaps, were the wires. He couldn't get a good glimpse of them, given that the figure was facing them, but Isaac could see that they all led from the being's head and led into his spine. Kind of like a permanent state of augmentation…

_Augmentation…don't think of that. Not now…_

"Well?" the figure asked, capitalizing on Isaac's silence. "I'm _frozen_, as you so eloquently put it. Then again, it's actually a bit warm in here, so it could be awhile before I go before zero degrees. Or minus thirty-two if your masters decided to go back to Fahrenheit. I guess-…"

"Shut up!"

Psychological warfare…it was something Isaac had never trained in. Then again, he'd never really had to.

"SK-018…" said the Spartan-II slowly, assuming that this individual was the same one that Jefferson had mentioned. "By the authority of-…"

"What authority?" the being asked. "Yours? What authority does one of humanity's lapdogs possess?"

"The authority to apprehend you in relation to the deaths of-…"

"The Covenant? You're welcome…no…no, it can't be…"

Isaac wasn't sure where this conversation was headed. All in all, he wasn't even sure if this actually counted as a conversation. Regardless of how much disdain the being treated him with, the commando knew that he had the upper hand, given that unlike the assailant, he was actually armed. Yet now the being had gone from mockery to silence. The type of silence that could only be maintained by silent staring, the red strip glowing as figures scrolled across it.

_A HUD? Is he scanning me?_

"Petty Officer Second Class Isaac-039…" said the being slowly, his words coming out as soon as the glow faded. "It's been a long time…"

In an instant, a certain MA5B was gripped even tighter.

"Stand _down_…" said Isaac slowly, ignoring the being's mind games. "You have-…"

"Still loyal to a fault?" the being sneered. "Still being your masters' lapdog? Honestly Isaac, hasn't _anything _changed?"

"Stand down, or I'll-…"

"After all they did to you…you still point a gun _away _from them? And to think I-…"

"**Stand down!"**

"And to think that after Grace, I thought you might be different…"

This wasn't war. This wasn't even a battle. But it was certainly a psychological conflict and one that Isaac knew he was losing. But with the mention of Grace, he was willing to concede the advantage. It was tempting to open fire and let the gun's roar remove the one resonating in his mind, but he wanted to get information first.

"Grace?" the NCO asked. "Where is she?"

"What's it to you?" the being sneered, before beginning to chuckle that reminded Isaac of a scene in that zombie film he saw. "Tell me, does she still like explosives and calamari?"

This was getting out of hand. Not only was the being, this…SK-018 implying familiarity with Isaac, but he was implying…no, making _clear _that he possessed a level of familiarity of Grace as well. But how on Earth, or any other planet was that possible?

Isaac didn't know. Twenty-three years old, seventeen years of training and nothing he'd learnt had prepared him for this.

"You know, I think you can lower that," said the figure, gesturing towards Isaac's assault rifle. "I mean, I haven't actually hurt anybody."

"There's ten marines who might say otherwise."

It was hard to gauge the assailant's visual expressions. Actually, for all intents and purposes, it was impossible. Yet somehow, Isaac could see his eyes…his humanoid eyes narrowing at such a statement. His imagination maybe, but right now imagination was one of the last things keeping him sane.

"The groundpounders?" the figure snarled. "What about them? They're even worse than you. _You _never had a choice Isaac. _They _did. They _volunteered. _And humanity has no use for those who can't see the bigger picture."

"And _you _can see it?"

"More than those lambs to the slaughter could. Especially since-…"

Isaac snapped.

It was something that had never happened before in recent memory. But in one instant, one pure, horrible instant where rage was the only emotion itself, where fire was the only element within him, Isaac gave way. To hear this…_psychopath _imply familiarity, to listen to a comparison of human lives to _livestock_…well, there was only one thing he could do.

Open fire.

Time slowed within the relic. Bullets flew, cases fell and somehow, the figure moved faster than either of them. One moment, Isaac was a god of death. The next, he was on the end of the Grim Reaper's scythe. Pain surged through him as he was slammed against the relic's wall, the EC-55 detaching from his magnetic clamps due to the force of the blow. Fighting back the pain, subduing the rage, he waited for the next blow…

It never came.

"You're getting slower Isaac," the figure sneered, walking back to the same place he had once stood before defying the laws of organic physiology. "I thought it was just your mind that had been cast in chains, but it seems that your-…"

Pulling the trigger of the assault rifle, Isaac proved that his muscles were working just perfectly. The bullets, however, were another matter.

_No…no…this isn't _possible!  
Isaac had seen bullets be absorbed by Covenant energy shields before, their users seemingly invincible. It therefore hadn't surprised him when he'd heard a marine exclaim that bullets were doing nothing in the recording, even if that wasn't necessarily true. Keep firing, and a Covie's shield would give way eventually. But here, in what was feeling like a dream, the bullets truly _were _doing nothing. Veering away from SK-018, they weren't even _hitting_ him. And it wasn't until his magazine ran dry that Isaac was able to fully comprehend this.

The being was faster on the uptake however.

"What, is that it?" the assailant sneered. "Out of juice already?"

"How?" Isaac whispered. "How did-…"

"Localized electromagnetic field," the being sneered, tapping the chest of his armor. "Wasn't consulted on the physics behind it. Then again, I wasn't consulted on _anything_…"

Isaac had heard enough. Right now, he had seen enough as well. However, "enough" for a Spartan was different from what it meant for a normal human. So as tempting as it was to retreat, Isaac stood his ground. Even with his gun useless, he was still deadly. Hell, he was a weapon in himself. And drawing himself into a CQC stance, he intended to prove it.

Mimicking his position, so did his adversary for that matter…

* * *

"_Excuse me, do you have a moment?"_

_The six year old looks up, brushing aside some auburn hair as she does so. The interruption has come as a surprise to her, and given that she's reaching a good point in her book, perhaps a little irritating. But Grace is a polite girl. So when she sees the woman before her, she falls into the rhetoric that every one of her classmates follows._

"_Good morning," the girl says. "Can I help you?"_

"_Yes, actually," says the woman pleasantly, smiling in a manner that…well, it has emotion at least. "I was wondering what book you were reading?"_

"_Er, well…"_

_Grace fidgets awkwardly, even more than the man standing on the other side of the schoolyard fence. There's two reasons she sits on the edge of the playground to read-one is that all her 'friends' tease her for reading in the first place, and the library is too obvious a spot. The second reason is that the book hasn't been borrowed through…correct channels. And while the woman before her doesn't look like a teacher, and is certainly too old to be a student, Grace still feels uneasy._

"_You don't have to show me if you don't want to," says the woman pleasantly, still smiling as Oasis's sun beats down on her dark hair. "I was just-…"_

"_No, it's alright," says Grace suddenly, deciding that if she's going to get into trouble, she may as well get it over it. "It's _The Secret Garden_."_

_Grace hands the woman the novel, who glances at the cover with…approval? It's hard to gauge, but it makes the young girl feel at ease. _

"_Interesting. You like it?"_

"_Oh yes," says Grace enthusiastically. "It's beautiful. It shows that a strong mind can overcome all adversity. It's…well, it's…"_

_The woman laughs. "Don't worry Grace. I know what you mean. And to tell you the truth, I completely agree. A strong mind _will _succeed in the end."_

_Grace beams at this, at the chance to have an intelligent conversation rather than the latest brand in nail polish. Yet part of her mind prompts caution-the woman seems nice, but how did she know her name? And as mundane as the saying is, isn't she not meant to talk to strangers?_

_It's a valid line of thought. But it quickly evaporates once the coin is drawn out._

"_Ohh, what's that?" Grace asks, barely able to contain her curiosity. Its silver reflects the sunlight, its dragon turning a shade of gold, along with its inscription._

"_This?" asks the woman. "It's a pound sterling, a currency that no longer exists. It's also good for playing heads or tails."_

"_Heads or tails?" Grace asks, wondering if she's about to be shamed into not knowing how to play yet _another _game that everyone else in her year knows how to play. "What's that?"_

"_Oh, it's simple really. You see how this coin has two sides?" the woman asks, showing Grace its dragon on one side and its crowned lady on the other. "You pick which side you think the coin will land on if I toss it. If you win, you get to keep it."_

_It seems like a stupid game. But then again, it's not every day one gets the chance to get their hands on a relic of Earth, one dating back centuries going by the _2000_ stamped on it. Grace nods. She'll play along._

"_Alright," says the woman, resting the coin between her thumb and first finger. I'll toss, you call it."_

_Grace remains silent, her eyes on the prize._

_The coin goes up…_

_The coin spins…_

* * *

"**Heads!"**

It was a strange feeling, waking up so suddenly. All Spartan-IIs were perfectly capable of going without sleep for extended periods of time, and when they _did _sleep, it was often in cryo. Consequently, the phase of waking up was slow and steady. Yet here she'd been sleeping naturally, and strange dreams aside, had woken up naturally as well. Well, as natural as possible when you were in an alien relic and were lying face down on the floor despite returning to the waking world as loudly as possible.

_Heads…_Grace thought to herself groggily, ignoring the flashing displayed on her suit's HUD. _I got heads…_

In essence, she'd got it right. Why Halsey had ever bothered with flipping a coin was a mystery to her, but either way, she'd found herself on Reach about a month later, ready to live for a purpose. A purpose that still existed, hence why she couldn't afford to lie down and face the floor. So as painful as it was, Grace managed to slide up, coming to rest against a nearby wall.

_4.4 seconds…should be able to get up faster than this._

It was a mundane line of thought. But it had kept her sane in the time it took to get to a more comfortable position. A position that allowed the NCO's mind to shift from the mundane to the supernatural.

_The hostile…the marines…_

It was all a blur really, what had happened…well, whenever it happened. All Grace knew was that suddenly she and the squad were under attack by a humanoid that moved incredibly fast, one that bullets seemed to have no effect on. It was an experience she was used to in principle, having seen Covenant energy shields in action numerous times, but…well, the thing wasn't Covenant. That much was clear.

_It attacked…but how'd I end up down here though?_

Looking around the chamber, Grace saw little superficial difference from what she'd seen beforehand. Grey walls, the signs of time, little light…In fact, the only source of light was from above. An above that featured a huge gaping hole in the roof. A hole that Grace remembered falling down, after she blocked the assailant's blow.

_Must have been at least one-hundred meters. If it wasn't for the armor…_

The Spartan-II cut off that train of thought. No need to remind herself on the possibility of meeting an end that had already come to too many of her brothers and sisters for her liking. An end that had almost certainly taken the strike team as well.

_The marines…should I contact them?_

Probably not. The assailant was almost certainly still active, and Grace was in its territory. And in such a situation, drawing attention to herself was the last thing she wanted. If she managed to exit the relic, she could try contacting Thunderville, but for now, remaining discreet was the best course of action. That, and trying to find a way out of here.

_Best get to it then._

Grace proceeded to do so…and wincing in pain, failed. The arm she'd used to push herself away from the wall had given way, and so had one of her legs. Both were almost certainly broken.

_Shit! Alright, let's get to it…_

It might have been surprising to most people that Grace hadn't realized the presence of two broken limbs until now, but she'd experienced worse pain than this. And pain was the body's way to stop you from moving on. It was something that eight years of training had allowed the NCO to hone out and ignore. Still, unless she did something about the limbs, the physical shortcomings would hold her back, even if the pain didn't. Starting off slow, she went for her right arm first, broken due to the combination of having ground beneath it and 1,000 pounds of power armor landing on top of it.

_Should be stronger than this…_

Bringing her left arm around to reach for a magazine, Grace knew that getting stronger would have to wait. Bringing out a spare clip for her absent MA5B, she flicked a round out. Next, she moved on to her helmet, going through the difficult process of detaching it with only one hand. Having finally gotten it off, she laid it beside her. Staring at its golden visor, Grace almost wished it wasn't polarized. She didn't get to look in the mirror very often and usually didn't have an inclination to. But the dream, the memories…what did she look like now? Her hair was shorter, her complexion was paler, but the intricacies of her face, if any existed, were unknown to her. After augmentation, Halsey had once mentioned about finding it hard to look in the mirror. The statement had been confusing enough at the time, and right now, even more so. Surely anyone would want to know what they looked like?

_Well, I'm not anyone…_

She was close to. Most people found it painful to snap broken limbs back into place. And putting the bullet into her mouth and clenching on it, Grace found out why. Short, painful, and nothing she hadn't encountered before, but the urge to get it all out, to let the world here it…well, if it wasn't for that thing wandering around, she just might have.

Tossing the bullet aside to join the already useless magazine, Grace fastened back on her helmet and slowly rose to her feet. There wasn't anything she could do for her leg right now, but at least with both of her arms in relative working order, she could wield her M6C with a degree of efficiency. How much good it would do was another matter, but hopefully the question wouldn't have to be answered. All that mattered now was getting back to the surface and from there, back to Thunderville.

Seeing a series of nearby ramps, Grace proceeded to do so.

* * *

**Unidentified alien relic (interior)**

Isaac didn't like CQC.

It wasn't that the Spartan _disliked_ it, it was just that in the current conflict mankind found himself in, it was a somewhat redundant method of fighting. Against Grunts, Jackals and Skirmishers, few of them could last long enough to warrant use of the technique. Elites could be lethal in close quarters, so it was far more preferable to take them out from a distance. As for Hunters…well, any moron who thought that engaging the behemoths in close combat was a good idea deserved to be killed for his idiocy. But when it came to humanoid psychopaths who were immune to bullets, CQC presented the only way of defending yourself. And right now, Isaac-039 was failing miserably.

Irony could be painful sometimes.

"Come on, put your heart into it!" the assailant yelled, sending another fist forward that Isaac was barely able to block. "Or did they take that from you too?"

_Keep talking like that and I'll rip _your _heart out, you-_

**Thump!**

"Thump," was the sound of a foot making contact with Isaac's helmet, sending the Spartan staggering to one side. And after a second "thump," he went back in the opposite direction. Finally, as the assailant did a double kick and rolled back to his feet, the NCO felt the full force of a double "thump" and made it a trio by landing on the ground with another "thump." Like irony, onomatopoeia could be painful.

"You're not without skill…" SK-018 mocked, walking over to the grounded Spartan. "But you seem reluctant to use it."

Isaac remained silent. His armor had taken most of the blow's force, but his body had still copped some of it. Besides, he didn't want to give the bastard any hint as to how 'reluctant' he was in fighting. Reluctant in the sense that he wasn't reluctant at all.

"Visited the gym lately, Isaac?" the being asked, beginning to pace around. "Been working on your fighting skills? Or is still the firing range for you?"

_The firing range? How could he know…_

Isaac shook it off. Ellison had reminded him of that already, so he was probably jumping to conclusions about the SOB's implications of familiarity. All that mattered now was to cut the familiarity to a close and get 'familiar' with those who could provided answers.

It didn't take long for a plan to form.

"Well, there's nothing for it," the being said eventually, once again heading for Isaac directly. "I guess I just have to-…"

**Bam!**

Not only did a different kind of sound reverberate throughout the artifact, but this time Isaac wasn't on the receiving end of it. Having waited for SK-018 to get close enough, he'd sprung up and unloaded a SAP-HP round from his M6D right into its stomach.

"Weapons?" the assailant laughed. "You still think you can harm me with a popgun?"

"What? How did-…"

"The magnetic field tears bullets apart at close range. And trust me, _Isaac_, I'm not going to let you get any closer."

Having put a large amount of confidence into his point blank tactic, Isaac hadn't anticipated having to defend himself. But with the pistol knocked out of his hand and suddenly feeling the pain of "thumps" as a pair of fists hammered his chest, it was clear it was a precaution he should have taken.

"Come on!" the being yelled, watching as the Spartan stumbled backwards. "Fight back! Live! Let the feel of battle consume you and-…"

Gritting his teeth, Isaac threw a punch…and pissed. The being ducked, grabbed his arm, kneed him three times in the chest, and threw him down to the floor. All in the space of about three seconds.

_Too fast…_Isaac thought to himself, gasping for breath. _Too fast…_

Was this what had happened to Grace and the marines, taken down by an assassin who, as good as they were, was simply better? It was a feeling that Isaac had experienced many times in his life. Hell, it was the feeling that all of the UNSC was currently experiencing against the Covenant. But as he rose to his feet, remembering every slapping down he'd got back on Reach, the Spartan couldn't ever remember feeling this worthless, this _insignificant. _And, in the back of his mind, this…scared as well. Certainly the extended wristblade from the assailant wasn't helping.

"A blade?" the NCO asked, trying to sound full of gusto. "Weren't you against weapons?"

"I was, until you broke the purity of unarmed combat," the being sneered, letting the blade catch the relic's dim light. "Besides, you drew a popgun, whilst this is a unique piece of metal laced with energy. Its uniqueness allows me to use it."

"That's a screwy rule."

"My place, my rules, _buddy_," SK-018 sneered. "Get used to it."

Darting forward, the assailant didn't leave much time to 'get used to it.'

Isaac raised his arms to form a defensive stance, but once again, he was too slow. A cold feeling filled his left arm, his HUD warning him of a suit breach as the blade breeched his skin. No blood though-somehow it had cauterized the wound, no doubt explaining the lack of blood from the Elites and marines. Before Isaac could even think about the implications of this though, he was sent sprawling. Catching sight of what looked like a control room down a corridor as he fell, Isaac landed on the stone floor. One arm useless, his head pounding and to top it off, a blade pointed at his neck.

_Shit…_

"It pains me to do this…" said the being, his red gaze matching Isaac's polarized golden one. "To kill an old friend…"

"We're…not friends," Isaac wheezed.

"Not now, I'm afraid. Hell…maybe we never were. But although this causes me pain, take cheer Isaac. I'm about to set you free."

For all the assailant's bullshit, Isaac knew that this was it. His left arm was useless, his right arm was pinned by the bastard's left leg and his own felt too much like jelly to be of any use. All there was to do now was close his eyes and wait to join all his brothers and sisters…if he was lucky.

Five seconds later, and Isaac was still waiting.

Opening his eyes, the Spartan deduced that either he was still alive, or Hell looked a lot like Hope (big surprise there). The knife was still there, its wielder was still there, but neither had moved. It was as if the murderer was…hesitating. But why? He'd killed at least nine people without a second thought, so why give the more lethal adversary pause?

Maybe, as the Spartan heard a safety being released, it was because he wasn't the more lethal adversary…

"Get off him you bastard!"

Isaac heard the yell, but it was quickly eclipsed by the being's own. With an electric current coursing over him, the Spartan supposed he couldn't blame him.

"Ahhh! **AHHHHH!"**

The being rose to his feet, flailing around as if the stream of energy was a swarm of bees. Hell, maybe it was. Right now, Isaac was willing to believe anything. Even the wielder of the EC-55 that he'd lost earlier.

_Grace…_

Bruised, battered and with a leg that looked like it was barely supporting her, but Petty Officer Second Class Grace-093 all the same. Isaac had come to rescue her, but it looked like it was the other way round. Still, with the being having stopped flailing and slowly making his way over to them, how long that remained the case was another matter. The weapon had slowed him down, but not stopped him.

_But what _can _stop him? _Isaac wondered.

Bullets didn't. Fists didn't. But there was still a third type of weapon in Isaac's arsenal, one that circumstance had prevented him from using. And while circumstances hadn't changed all that much, Isaac couldn't give a damn. And, as he pulled the pin, neither could the frag grenade that rolled over to the monster's feet.

"Fire in the hole!" the Spartan yelled, rising to his feet, only to dive back to ground towards where Grace was. In less than a second, his fellow NCO had joined him.

**Boom!**

There was no screaming this time. Nor gloating. Nor…well, not anything. Just silence, apart from the Spartans' heavy breathing. To Isaac's surprise, he was breathing harder. Apparently Green Team's 'tech' was hardier than he thought.

"Isaac?" Grace whispered. "You okay?"

Grace didn't answer, the blast and/or impact having knocked her out cold. However, on the brighter side, the blast had detached SK-018's weapon. Still, the Spartan had learnt that the bastard was a weapon in itself. And since that weapon clearly had no intention of being used by the UNSC, the only remaining course of action was to destroy it.

_Yes…not him…_it.

"That…that…"

"Shut up," Isaac snarled, ignoring the being's gasps and grabbing him by the neck. The armor was intact, if burnt, but the helmet had come loose. So all it took was for Isaac to use his right hand, ignoring the pain, to pull it off.

"Alright. Let's see what kind of man you…"

The helmet dropped on the ground. A M6D pistol joined it. And given the weight in them, so did Isaac's words…

"…this is impossible. You died…"

* * *

_A/N_

_Update (04/09/2011): Corrected SK-017 typos-all are meant to be SK-018._

_Update (08/05/2011): Corrected spelling and grammar errors._


	13. Reflections

.

**Halo: Shadows of Hope**

**Chapter 13: Reflections**

**Video Feed Alpha**

**From: SK-018**

**To: Keancros**

"This is impossible. You died..."

Yeah...that's where things went screwy, prompting Keancros to wind the tape back and receive the gratification of the events beforehand. Well, the immediate events at least, considering how unpleasant it was to see nine innocents go the way of the Harvest whale. Watching SK-018 pound the, as he so rightly called him, _puppet_, was gratifying on both a professional and personal level.

_Wish that bitch could be watching this..._

Well, she couldn't, though there was more than one bitch in this universe and Keancros would inevitably have to show the admiral that. Pausing the frame where the pistol round was torn apart by magnetism, he wondered if he should try cutting that out. Yes, it was impressive technology, if not cost effective, and yes, it showed that not even Spartan-IIs were infallible, but it was also an indicator of Reaper's potential. Potential that he was mostly sure was tarnished beyond redemption given recent events, but still, separating the wheat from the chaff was what the powers that be did. The only question was what happened to the chaff after said separation occurred. Because while both men in the relic were chaff in his mind, at least one admittedly had future use. Use that, as he found a blade to his throat, would have been cut short in later life. Because with the moment of truth coming to pass...well, that might require some cleaning up.

On the other hand, it would make Hope's defenders even more antagonistic towards Harwood. And while more along the lines of bitch 4 than 3, Keancros couldn't help but smile faintly at the hot water she'd soon find herself in. Even hot plasma for that matter, given the continued Covenant presence. Still, there were hopes and there were realities. And the reality was that there should be enough data here to ensure SIIIs continuation.

_And more besides..._

Of all the factors the operative had factored in, the emergence of an alien relic hadn't been among them. And while not the only indication of ancient extraterrestrial life that humanity had discovered, that still left more questions than answers. Courtesy of SK-018's feed, the answers were slightly enlightening, albiet limited. The subject had somehow kept himself updated on Covenant language over the years, so the Prophet's writings were elusive to him right now until he could get proper translation software. The orb thing had given out some answers, but they were vague and the subject hadn't sought clarification, presumably as part of an attempt to maintain the facade of familiarity that had been imposed on him. So while he had an idea of the relic's function, of what threat it posed, Keancros was slightly sceptical.

_But what if it _is _true? Its function? Its power? And what if it falls into SK-018's hands?_

Well, better than the Covenant's hands to be sure. But that was cold comfort. In the end, all that was left to do was wait...

...wait as he always did.

* * *

**Cougar infantry fighting vehicle**

**Unidentified alien relic (exterior)**

"Dear tall, dark and ugly. Jack Hawkins isn't here right now, but if you leave your name and number, I'll get back to you as soon as possible. Start recording after the beep..._beep_."

It was a sign of how bad things were for the marine that he was talking to himself, let alone imitating an answering machine that in light of commercial AIs, was obsolete in many UEG territories. Admittedly they could have been worse-he could have been dead alongside the squad's medic. But while he was alive and said medic wasn't, it was up to him to act the role of medic, raid the Cougar's health pack and figure out what he was supposed to do with it in regards to his shoulder. Maybe nothing, given that it was cauterized. But still, he couldn't help but feel an arse for not learning some first aid in the three years he'd had of doing nothing.

_Maybe the tall guy can help out._

Or maybe not. Because chances were, he wasn't coming back out. It was over fifteen minutes and although he'd become a proverbial answering machine, Hawkins was still here. Sure he could dismantle a pistol with a proficiency the jarhead hadn't thought possible, but that probably wouldn't avail him against the...thing that was within the relic. A thing that could come strolling out any moment, see Hawkins lying against the Cougar and slit his throat before he even got the door open. And there was also the Covenant, who might be interested in retrieving the bodies of their fallen.

_Yeah...screw this. Time to go._

"Hey you. Time to go."

Hawkins blinked. Clearly the...Spartan-II or whatever he was called thought so as well.

"Hey guys..." said the marine awkwardly, rising to his feet and still being a good head shorter than the two behemoths making their way out of the relic. "What took ya?"

Neither of them answered. And while Hawkins couldn't help but be a bit miffed at that, reminded of Physon in an unpleasant way, he supposed it was a stupid question anyway. One of them was leaning on the other, moving in a manner that suggested that his/her leg was broken. The other looked no better either, part of his/her armour torn open in the right arm. A hole that showed no sign of blood. A hole that, as the throbbing reminded him, was similar to the marine's own.

"So...did you come across that maniac?" the private asked, the two Spartans making their way over to the Cougar with the speed of a turtle. "Did you get him?"

Neither Spartan answered. Not the one that had accompanied Hawkins originally, nor the one who'd scrapped his pistol either. Both of them were close enough to be recognised, yet neither had answered. And not only was that annoying, but almost ominous as well.

"Well?" Hawkins repeated. "Did you find out who it-..."

The marine stopped short. A Spartan making a dent in the Cougar with his fist tended to shut ordinary humans up.

_Crap. This is worse than I thought..._

"You're still here," the male super-soldier murmured, not even glancing at the marine as he helped his companion to the rear of the Cougar. "Is that because you waited? Or because you can't drive?"

"I...er, well I guess I can drive it," the marine murmured, feeling the same way he did when he was summoned to the principal's office for breaking a window. "Why?"

"Because no-one else is coming out," the behemoth said simply, shutting the AFV's rear hatch and still not giving the marine a glance. "Take the Cougar and Grace back to Thunderville. "I'll take the Warthog."

"Um...sure," said the private, gazing at the Spartan even if the favour wasn't returned. And while he turned his gaze to the Cougar for a second, opening its hatch and preying it was similar to a Warthog, his eyes quickly locked back on the Spartan. "So er...you going to tell me what happened in there?"

"No."

Screw "tall dark and ugly," because "strong and silent" fitted the jackass to a T. Well, silent at least. Because as strong as he was, the NCO's tone and slow, shuffling movement to the Warthog indicated that he might not be as strong as he would have liked.

Then again, as Hawkins realized as he climbed into the driver's seat with his shoulder burning, no-one was.

The Warthog felt foreign. So did the entire universe for that matter. It was as if a blindfold had been lifted from his eyes and only now Isaac was viewing Creation for what it really was.

He didn't like what he saw.

Within a few seconds, he'd activated the auto-drive function. In another few seconds, he'd set the destination for Thunderville. And in a mere couple of seconds, the LRV was en route.

And a couple of seconds after that, Isaac-039 was fast asleep.

* * *

**Epsilon Eridani System, Planet Reach**

**Ten years ago**

"_Bam!"_

_It was one "bam" among many other "bams," but Isaac only heard his own. Mufflers on his ears drowned out much of the sound around him, but staring down the sights of a MA5K carbine, he couldn't help but hear the sound of his rifle. That, and of his training computer, informing him that at one hundred metres, he was only three inches off from his target. And having fired the last round in his current magazine, it informed him of much more. Rate of fire, overall accuracy, reload time...all stuff that was relevant in principle, but simply generalities to the cadet._

"_Candidate, Isaac-039," the voice droned. "Twelfth clip. Rate of fire: thirty rounds in forty-four seconds. Accuracy rating: eighty-seven percent. Average reload time: three-point two seconds."_

"_Hah, beat you!" came a voice, one that the Spartan heard despite the sounds of gunfire along the rifle range. "Two point nine seconds!"_

"_Yeah?" Isaac asked, reloading as fast as he could just the same. "And what about your accuracy?"_

_Kirk didn't answer. Maybe it was the knowledge that his accuracy was lower than Isaac's or maybe he didn't hear him as he let out a volley of shots at his own target. It was a shame really. The trainee knew he was meant to be concentrating, but after an arduous one month survival course in the Highland Mountains, simple target shooting was surprisingly relaxing. Especially so since a buzzer ran down the range, signalling the end of fire._

"_Phew...glad that's over," René-005 murmured, tossing her visor and mufflers to one side and laying her MA5K to the other. "Hands were starting to go numb."_

_Isaac remained silent, but thought and did likewise. He didn't know whether the buzzer signalled the end of the exercise or simply allowing time for the scores to be tallied, but he wanted to get some rest while he was at it. That, and chat to his friends while having the warmth of Epsilon Eridani beat down on him._

"_So...who do you think got top spot?" Kirk asked, coming down to sit beside Isaac from one direction, while René-005 approached from the other._

"_Linda," said the only female member of the trio. "May not be sniper rifles we're using, but it's the same principle. Shoot fast, shoot straight-..."_

"_And reload quickly," Kirk grinned, still flushed at his success._

_Isaac rolled his eyes in an exaggerated motion. He often played the role of the middle-man in the trio, balancing Kirk's 'wild side' with René-005's more controlled character. It wasn't that he had to moderate between the two, but it was important for all the Spartan-IIs to work together at a team, whether as just a trio or at their full strength of seventy-five. Of course, competition would fuel such teamwork, which was why he supposed the exercise was being held. Not so much as a breather from the mountains, but to still encourage competition. Still, that wasn't to stop him from lying down and simply relaxing._

_Shaking his shoulder, Kirk had other ideas._

"_Hey Isaac," he asked. "What's that guy doing?"_

"_What guy?" -039 asked, not bothering to open his eyes and hoping that his friend got the hint._

"_That guy over there. The guy with the...thing."_

_Clearly Kirk wasn't getting the hint. Nor was René-005 for that matter._

"_Thing?" she asked. "It's not a _thing_. It's a camera...thing."_

"_How eloquent."_

"_Hey, it's an old one. We were never taught to identify antiques."_

_That wasn't entirely true-antiques were simple and "simple living" was among the rallying calls of Innies. That, and other cries that often involved "Earth" and a certain word that literally translated to fornication. Still, Outer Colony nostalgia aside, the mention of an antique piqued Isaac's interest. And rising from the ground and letting his eyes adjust to the mid-afternoon sun's glare, he managed to catch sight of the "thing" that René-005 and Kirk had mentioned. And more importantly, the man wielding it._

A marine? _Isaac wondered. _What's he doing here?

_Instinct told the Spartan that it wasn't for anything good. Sometimes the Spartans were pitched against each as teams, other times they faced adult opponents. Adults that almost always lost and were thus compelled to achieve small, petty victories in off the record circumstances. Yet looking at the man more closely, Isaac found his initial hostility fading. He wasn't really a man for starters. He was young...probably in his twenties and despite a median age of thirteen, many of the Spartans looked much older. Seeing Mendez and Halsey quite often, Isaac knew what "old" was and this...kid certainly wasn't it._

"_What's he doing here?" Kirk asked. "What's he doing at-..."_

"_No-one said that visitors weren't allowed," said Isaac simply. "The rifle range is ours, but observers are free to enter."_

_That was true, but the grunt was nonetheless the only observer here. Well, the only observer apart from computers that truly were "dumb" pieces of coding. And although those very computers had resumed giving out statistics, Isaac paid them no attention. He'd been firing a weapon for seven years. He was willing to miss a few minutes for some casual interaction. And as Kirk and René-005 followed him towards the marine, currently looking through the lens of his "camera thing," he supposed that his friends desired such interaction as well._

"_I'm telling you, right on target!"_

_...and bragging._

"_Hey you..." Isaac asked the jarhead, his tone more accusatory than he intended. "What are you doing?"_

_The kid looked at the approaching trio, trying and failing to hide his surprise and apprehension. Unlike Kirk, who'd switched from bragging to resentful muttering, Isaac didn't see it as a sign of guilt. Whenever someone on this training reserve had a trio of Spartans headed their way, they were often fated to head in the same direction. Well, provided the direction had an infirmary on its route._

"_What am I doing?" the man asked. "What are _you _doing?"_

"_Well, until we saw you snooping around, we were doing some target shooting," said René-005 simply. "But since we-..."_

_René-005 trailed off, prompting puzzled looks from her comrades. Not that she noticed. She was too busy staring at the camera the marine was holding, along with a piece of paper extended from a slot in it._

"_Print photography..." said René-005 slowly. "You found this?"_

Print? _Isaac wondered. People still use_ print_?_

"_Yeah, it's a print camera alright," said the marine, his enthusiasm for the subject overshadowing his previous apprehension. "Got it from Manassas."_

_That, or Manassas Spaceport, Isaac reflected, knowing that being the commercial hub it was, all matter of goods passed through Reach. Still, he doubted that a camera would be linked to the Insurrection. There were far more profitable...and dangerous goods the rebels could sell._

"_Little baby has instant print," the jarhead continued, smiling at René-005's rapt attention. "Pretty advanced at its time of conception, but everything is holographic nowadays, you'd hardly see anyone using something like this."_

"_Yeah, I bet," said Kirk brusquely, stepping forward and shoving René-005 to the side. "So why are _you _using it, pal? What brings you to the firing range?"_

_It was typical, really. Kirk, with his jet black hair, rugged features and sharp gaze, was intimidating even without trying. Problem was, he often did try, which in this case, ruined the mood Isaac was currently enjoying. Yet he wasn't sure how to restore it. René-005 and Kirk might see him as a happy modicum, but Isaac didn't see himself as a leader. Never had, never would. Luckily, the marine stood his ground._

"_The Highland Mountains," he said, gesturing to them. "Don't know if you've noticed them, but they're some pretty spectacular scenery. Plus, I'm meant to be here. Guard duty, if you will. Got the papers to prove it."_

_Letting out a derisive snort, it was clear that Kirk didn't believe him. Still, as he was the 'leader' of the trio, Isaac didn't care what Kirk thought right now. Glancing at the scrap of paper the jarhead produced, it seemed official, along with verifying, among other things, that the marine was an engineer and his name was Alan Ellison._

Service record is a bit sparse..._Isaac reflected, glancing at the dark haired kid and being reminded of himself when he first arrived on Reach. _Did he just get assigned here?

_Maybe. Maybe not. But either way, Isaac decided to trust him. And given her amicable tone, so did René-005 for that matter._

"_So..." the Spartan-II asked, brushing aside some of her hair awkwardly. "You take pictures often?"_

"_Well, over the past few days I have," answered Ellison, smiling faintly as the conversation was steered back into waters he was comfortable with. "It's become something of a hobby."_

"_Really..." said Isaac slowly, an idea slowly forming in his mind. "And this thing has instant print, right?"_

"_That's right. Why?"_

"_Well, I was just wondering if you could take a picture of us."_

"_What!"_

_The exclamation came from Kirk, while René-005 remained silent. And while Ellison hadn't said anything, his surprised expression made it clear that it wasn't a request that he'd anticipated._

"_A picture?" the engineer asked. "You want a picture of you?"_

"_Yeah," said Isaac slowly, glancing at both of his friends. "You know...something to remember this by. Come ten years and we'll be fighting Innies. Might be nice to look back on more peaceful times."_

"_Hey...yeah," said René-005, warming up to the idea. "Nice thinking."_

"_Thinking my arse," Kirk grunted. "You can count me out."_

_Grabbing the boy's shoulder, René-005 had other plans. Plans that Ellison seemed to be warming up to._

"_Alright..." said the marine slowly. "Um...smile I guess."_

_Isaac couldn't remember the last time he'd had his picture taken. Yet putting his arms around Kirk and René-005, the former's gaze unwavering while the latter smiled gently, he quickly lapsed into the routine. A routine that, as the printed product showed, had paid off._

"_That's _me?_" Kirk exclaimed incredulously. "I look like _that?"

"_Yeah...that's you alright," grinned René-005, peering at the photo Isaac was holding. Sensing her interest (and Kirk's lack of it, given his return to the rifle range), the Spartan-II tried to hand it to her. René-005 refused._

"_No Isaac, you keep it," she said. "It was your idea, you get to reap the benefits."_

"_I...well, thanks," said Isaac slowly. He glanced back at Ellison. "Any chance of copies of this?"_

"_Maybe..." said the engineer awkwardly. "But the chances of getting it to you..."_

_He trailed off, and Isaac couldn't blame him. No-one, apart from Mendez and maybe Halsey, had any constant idea of where the cadets resided and getting a photo to them could be next to impossible. A shame really, but even as René-005 went back to join Kirk, Isaac didn't feel too disappointed. In his hand, he had a physical memory of this moment. A moment where he, Kirk and René-005 had been together._

_And despite their differences, Isaac-039 knew they always would be._

* * *

**Epsilon Eridani System, Planet Reach**

**Nine years ago**

"_Isaac? Can you hear me?"_

_Isaac-039 didn't answer. He _couldn't _answer, his mouth unable to form the words his mind wanted them to. And even his mind was acting up._

Where am I _the boy wondered. _When am I...

"_Isaac?" the voice came again, once again sounding like it was radiating from the void of slipspace. "Can you hear me? Can you move?"_

_Once again, Isaac remained silent, though his mouth was actually able to form a "wh" prefix. Whether that translated to "what, when, where or why" was something that his mind was still working on. And "how" was a long time coming as well._

"_Isaac?" came the voice again, sounding more concerned than before, and also more familiar. "Can you move?"_

_Letting a small groan come out, Isaac shifted his right arm...slightly. Right now, he wasn't even sure if he did have an arm. Still, as his eyes were still closed, maybe opening them would help. Just raise the eyelids and-..._

"_**Arghhh!"**_

_The light...it was _burning _him. True, it confirmed that he did have a right arm as well as a left one, but as the hands of both converged on his eyelids in an attempt to prevent the pain, it was cold comfort. Especially as the pain was now extending into his arms as well. Pain that felt as if glass was moving through his bones. Glass that was on _fire.

"_Oh Isaac, I'm sorry," came the voice. "Here, I'll turn the lights down."_

_The amount of brightness decreased. Removing his hands from his eyes but still keeping them closed, Isaac could tell that much. And as words came out of his mouth, it was clear that his vocal capacity had recovered as well._

"_Wh...where...I"_

_Well, sort of recovered._

"_It's alright Isaac, I'm here," came the voice again, the Spartan-II feeling a comforting hand reach his shoulder. "Just take it slow. I'll be with you every step of the way."_

_It was probably a placebo effect, but nonetheless, the teen felt the pain in his left arm diminish, the sensation spreading down from his left shoulder. Doctor Catherine Elizabeth Halsey tended to have that effect on him, as with all his brothers and sisters in arms._

"_Wh...why am I feeling like this?" Isaac asked slowly, glad to be able to form a more coherent sentence this time. "Why..."_

"_The side effects, Isaac. The pain in your body, the seeming brightness...your body's still getting used to augmentation."_

Augmentation? _Isaac wondered. He remembered something like that being mentioned...well, he couldn't remember the date, but it was at least the last time he was conscious. How much time had passed he couldn't tell, but he certainly hadn't been lying in this bed. A bed that, as he gingerly opened his eyes to gaze at it, pleased for the gloom that was still not as dark as it should be, was drenched in sweat as well as what looked like blood and urine._

Eww...

_Isaac's body wanted him to stay in the bed. Given her words, mainly overshadowed by the ringing in the Spartan's head, so did Doctor Halsey. Still, Isaac managed to ignore them. Wherever he was, whatever had happened, the least he could do was get out of the mess that he suspected he himself had made. Bringing one leg out of the covers to the icy floor and slowly following it with the second, the trainee managed to do just that._

"_Nice Isaac, very nice," said Halsey approvingly. "You're doing better than I thought possible. Especially after..."_

_She trailed off, but the Spartan-II barely heard her. He was too busy rubbing his hands down his arms, partly to help ease the pain and also feeling the strange build-up of muscle. Glancing at a mirror on the other side of the room, the teen saw that his facial features had altered also. His face was...harder, as if the distance between flesh, bones and muscle had decreased. His formerly gold hair hung limply in colourless streaks, as did his now gray...and formerly bleeding eyes. It was as if someone had sculpted him into something new. And with his head still throbbing, Isaac couldn't tell if he liked it or not._

_Glancing up at Halsey, seeing her with the same height, same hair, same face that she'd possessed over the last eight years, it was hard to tell whether she liked it or not._

"_Doc..."Isaac began slowly, his gaze returning to the floor as he did so. "What happened?"_

"_What happened, -034?" the scientist asked, her use of numerical designation not going unnoticed. "What happened is that you've gone through...and survived...augmentation. A process that every member of Spartan-II has gone through over the past few days."_

_Augmentation? Isaac certainly didn't feel that "augmented" right now. If anything, he felt like a cripple. And what did Halsey mean by "survived?" _

"_How about the others doc?" Isaac breathed, feeling a strange...clutching in his chest. "How are...how are Kirk and René-005?"_

_It was a selfish question in a sense. Assuming that every Spartan-II had gone through augmentation, then that meant over seventy of his friends were in the same boat and Isaac shouldn't focus on just two of them. Still, he couldn't take back what was said. And even if he felt like he was going to throw up, even if all his comrades saw it, having his two closest friends with him would make the ordeal worth it._

"_Kirk and René-005?" Halsey asked slowly. "Um...well Isaac, I think it's best if you focus on yourself for now and-..."_

"Where are they?"

_The intensity of his words surprised him, but Halsey's evasion was even more unexpected. Even now, Isaac wasn't sure what kind of individual Catherine Elizabeth Halsey was, but having been the person who gave his life purpose, had told him the truth from the start, he'd always seen her as an honest one. Yet here she was, unable, or unwilling to answer a simple question. A question that she still hadn't responded to._

"_Kirk and René-005," Isaac repeated. "Are they alright? Did they...pass the mission?"_

"_No Isaac. No they didn't."_

_The words hit hard. Harder than a mass driver round. And as the fire returned again, as he flopped back into the bed in shock, it was as if the proverbial round had hit a proverbial dam. Because a flood was coming and it consisted of nothing but Halsey's words._

"_Isaac, Kirk and René-005...something went wrong. The carbide ceramic ossification...their bones...they're twisted out of proportion! They're in neutral buoyancy tanks now. They...oh Isaac, I'm so sorry..."_

_A second round hit Isaac. And it hurt even more than before. One instant...one horrible instant and Isaac had been told that his two closest friends were as good as dead. One instant and he'd lost what felt like everything._

_Eight years ago, when he was first brought to Reach and had come to truly understand that he could never see his family or homeworld again, Isaac had been unable to stop himself from crying. This time, despite both physical and emotional pain, the Spartan-II managed not to._

_Barely._

* * *

**Chi Mu System, Settlement 01 ("Thunderville")**

**Planet Hope**

**Present Day**

"Hey Isaac! Wake up!"

Come out of cryo, fight, go into cryo. Come out of cryo, fight, go into cryo. That, repeated into infinity, was the story of his life. And while Isaac had experienced actual sleep over the past...well, however long it was, he felt no different in principle. Hell, not even the freezer could stop the occasional dream.

_But those weren't dreams. Those were memories..._

Dreams, memories...what difference did it make? The Spartan didn't know and with Grace having woken up from the vague realm of the mind that resided between the two, Green 5 wasn't able to find out. All that was left to do was try his best to operate in the world of the waking-Settlement 01, a.k.a. "Thunderville."

Stumbling out of the Warthog, the Spartan-II knew that he was already failing.

Glancing back at the Warthog, the petty officer watched as both Grace and Hawkins existed. Anton was allowing the former to lean on him for support while the latter was being hugged by some brown haired medic for some reason. Well, no matter. Reason was overrated, Isaac reflected bitterly. Whether Joshua and Vinh thought the same however, was as nebulous as his conscious mind had become.

"Well, Green Five?" the team's leader asked, having suddenly appeared within a few feet of the commando, Green 4 standing by silently. "Mind to tell me what was going through your head when you shot off without the rest of us?"

_Fuck you Josh..._Isaac thought bitterly, his mind refusing to fall into the present. _Fuck you all..._

It wasn't really Green leader that he should be angry at. But remembering what had happened in the relic, remembering the realizations that had come with it, it was hard not to. Still, there was at least consolation in all of this.

Nine years ago, Isaac hadn't shed any tears.

Less than an hour ago, the supersoldier had realized that they would have been wasted.

* * *

**Unidentified alien relic (interior)**

**Less than an hour ago**

"_This is impossible. You died..."_

_Shock didn't cover what Isaac was experiencing. There probably wasn't a single word in the English language that could. And while he'd picked up a few words from various Eastern European dialects, courtesy of living on Reach for eight years, none of those words would suffice either. So, in the end, all that was left to do was stare. Stare into the face of a dead man. A face that didn't stare, but _glared _back at him._

"_Dead?" the assailant asked. "Is that what they told you? Or did your capacity for self delusion make you think this?"_

_Isaac glanced at Grace, still unconscious. He wasn't about to get any backup. So when the assailant rose to his feet, there was no-one to stop him. No-one but a paralysed soldier who was staring into the visage of what might as well have been the Grim Reaper..._

_...Kirk-018._

"_Well?" Kirk repeated. "Aren't you happy to see me?"_

_Isaac remained silent, the only sound in the chamber being that of him stepping on his formerly dropped pistol. He didn't think to pick it up though. Right now, it was hard to think of anything._

"_You...you can't be him..." Isaac whispered. "You...you're SK-018. You're a...a..."_

_And then it hit him. SK-018. Spartan Kirk-018. It was a designation. A simple designation practically identical to one that had been handed out seventeen years ago. And for all his augmentation, for all his supposed intelligence, Isaac had missed it completely. Everyone had._

"_What am I, then?" Kirk asked, still finishing Isaac's sentences for him. "A monster? A hero? Have I killed enough sheep to make the transition?"_

_Kirk...still a smartass. A psychopathic smartass, but a smartass just the same. His face was scarred, as if only held together by a surgeon's laser. His eyes were colourless and only the slightest trace of his formerly black hair remained. But it was still Kirk. Somehow, Isaac knew it. _

"_Kirk..." said Isaac slowly. "What happened? You...what are you doing?"_

"_What am I doing?" the (former?) Spartan asked, kneeling down to pick up his helmet as he did so. "That's a good question pal. Have you ever asked what _you _are doing, or why you're doing it?"_

_Isaac hadn't. But his lack of questions didn't bother him. No...what was disturbing was why Kirk had asked that in the first place._

"_Kirk you...you killed people..." said the NCO blankly, completely at a loss. "You...damnit Kirk, we're on the same side! You-..."_

"_No-one's on my side Isaac. No-one. And don't let the Covenant bodies or dyson strikes fool you."_

"_Dyson strikes? What are you-..."_

_Kirk kicked him. Hard. And as he gasped for breath, Isaac soon found himself on the floor where his friend had once been._

"_Are you that stupid?" SK-018 sneered, putting his helmet back on and closing it with a telltale hiss. "The Covenant force that attacked Thunderville...did you really think the sheep prevailed on their own?"_

"_Kirk, you-..."_

"_There were three forces Isaac, three forces!" Kirk yelled. "I isolated two with this relic's defensive systems, disabling the flanking forces from afar. There wasn't enough power for a third strike, but it didn't matter! It kept both sides at their throats long enough for my goals to...well, that's another matter."_

"_Goals?"_

_This time, it was the former Spartan's turn to be silent. Still as well, considering that he made no move to prevent Isaac getting to his feet again. However, the petty officer didn't move either. Only his mouth did._

_And once it was raised, just like Halsey, the flood came out._

"_Kirk...what happened?" Isaac whispered. "You and René-005...you washed out in augmentation. Your bodies, your bones...you were in tanks! You were unable to move! You died before long! You...you...damnit Kirk, what the hell happened?"_

"_What happened?" Kirk whispered. "Hell, Isaac. That's what happened. And before you ask, no, I never died. I was never given the chance to. And before long, I'll be at the stage where death is a complete impossibility."_

"_Kirk, you-..."_

"_Isaac, you could never see the big picture," said the former Spartan sadly, beginning to pace around with the same arrogance he'd displayed when they'd first confronted each other. "None of us could. But this relic, this...birthright, will change everything. You might have noticed how quickly you arrived, perhaps? The speed at which you reached the system? It's the slipspace currents, Isaac. This relic increased their speed, turned what was once a river into a flood. And as amazing as that seems, this isn't even its full function. Its true purpose. A purpose that it will soon be used for..."_

_The Spartan-II remained silent. He didn't know whether Kirk was telling the truth and there was no way of telling. Once, he'd been able to read his friend like a book. But seeing his friend warped into a mish-mash of flesh and bone, floating in stasis...well, how could he read that? How could anyone?_

_Walking off into the gloom, Kirk wasn't making things easy for him either._

"_Wait!" Isaac yelled, picking up his pistol. "Stop there Kirk! Stop or I'll-..."_

_He was going to say "shoot" but he didn't. Spinning round, grabbing the pistol and pointing it at Isaac's visor, SK-018 got to say it for him._

"_Shoot?" Kirk asked. "Shoot me in the back? You become a backstabber too?"_

_Isaac didn't answer. Not then, not when Kirk could have killed him then and there. And not even when the being placed the gun back in his hands._

"_Kirk, you..."_

"_You want answers, talk to Harwood," Kirk grunted, disappearing into the relic's darkness. "But don't worry Isaac. We'll meet again soon..." _

_Fingering the firearm, at a loss as to what to do with it, Isaac neither believed nor doubted that. Right now, he didn't know what to think. All he knew was the facts. Kirk-018, one of his closest friends, was still alive._

_And he'd become a monster._

* * *

**Settlement 01 ("Thunderville")**

**The present**

"Petty Officer Isaac-039, snap out of it!"

Eight years. Eight long years of training had ensured many things and addressing Isaac by his full name and rank justified the guarantee that in by doing so, Joshua-029 now had his undivided attention. So, in this moment of space and time, he was under Hope's gray skies, not a relic's gray stone. He was facing a visor of gold, not red. And however much Green Leader might have wanted to kill him right now, unlike Kirk, he would hold back.

_But Kirk held back. He...he..._

"Isaac!"

Second time lucky. Isaac was "out of it." He was in the here and the now.

"Joshua..." the Spartan-II said slowly. "I..."

"Yes, I know what you did," said Green Leader impatiently. "Or at least, I know what you did until you stole a Warthog and..." He trailed off, glancing at Green 3. "...brought Grace back. But what you brought her back from is what I want to know. What we _all _want to know."

"And you will," Isaac rasped, fighting the urge to fall back asleep. "We all will. And I know where to get the answers."

"Answers? Isaac, I need answers from-..."

"Harwood," the Spartan-II murmured, making his way to the command centre. "We need to speak to Doctor Harwood..."

* * *

**CCS-class battlecruiser **_**Divine Crusader**_

**Location: Seven miles north of human settlement, upper canyon wall near Forerunner relic**

Patience was a virtue of the Covenant. All in all, it had to be. One had to be patient in the war it found itself in with heretics, to understand that it would take time to eradicate their taint from the galaxy. And as the beginning of the Great Journey was even further away, without a definite time or place of occurrence, patience might be required for the rest of one's life. That being said, the Prophet of Devotion was running low on patience. Firstly, the war was of little concern to him right now, bar the issue of his life, which said war might bring to an end quite soon. And as the Great Journey was likely a moot point for him either way...well, after long having given up on the file he'd sent into the relic, patience had been cast aside in favour of pragmatism.

Which was unpleasant. Pragmatism brought headaches.

Residing on his private quarters of the battlecruiser and fighting the urge to simply lie down and let the pain subside, Devotion found himself barely able to concentrate on his work. The battlecruiser was not entirely undefended, but with one legion destroyed and the other two missing, not to mention the newly arrived humans, they were in a precarious position, even if he couldn't admit that in public. Yet if salvation..._his _salvation was to be achieved, he'd have to weaken his position even further and gather some more sangheili to form a file. A short term loss for a long term gain, but if the heretics attacked, the long term picture might become academic.

_Well, there are other options..._the san 'shyuum thought glumly, resting on his head while the other supported his chin, letting fatigue get to him. _I could contact..._

No, that wasn't an option. Certainly not in the long term picture anyway. But then again, while _that _contact would be cost prohibitive, the other contact option...well, it would once again cost him protection in the short term, but at least there would be no tears shed over their departure.

_Well, it's risky, but-..._

"Lord Prophet, I request audience."

_...speak of the devil..._

Well, no-one spoke of the "devil" considering that the Covenant's current devils numbered in the billions as far as he could tell, not to mention the demons among them. Still, all things considered, Devotion was comfortable in seeing the devil he knew deactivate his active camouflage rather than be confronted by the devil he didn't.

"Not that I have a choice, but yes, your audience is granted," said Devotion calmly, shifting around in his seat to face the newcomer. "But in the future, regardless of the need for secrecy, you will request from _outside _my quarters, do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, my master."

Despite the situation, the san 'shyuum allowed himself a small smile. It was so pleasant to be able to speak without there being objection to everything that came out of his mouth. 'Tikawomee could be useful, but he exercised far too much independent thought than Devotion was comfortable with. His secret servants on the other hand...

"Lord Prophet, I have bad news," the figure said. "The shipmaster has violated your orders."

...were proving more and more useful.

"How surprising," murmured Devotion sarcastically. "Which orders would they be?"

The figure grimaced, his hatred for the shipmaster made clear to the san 'shyuum. It boded well for what the Prophet suspected the future held.

"Orders that you gave before we arrived on this world, my lord. Orders that I fear he disobeyed long ago..."

* * *

_Update (08/05/2011): Corrected spelling and grammar errors._


	14. Trump Card

.

**Halo: Shadows of Hope**

**Chapter 14: Trump Card**

At first, there had been light.

Not the light of star or moon, nor the light of the gods' faithful. No...this light's source was as mysterious as the nature of the light itself. One moment, the legions of the faithful had driven forward, unchallenged and unopposed. The next thing they knew, a strange light had descended from the sky, blinding them. A divine light maybe? If so, why had it immobilized them?

Either way, it was gone now. The white light, the warping of space and time...they were back in the present. A present that was a cycle later than it should have been. Well, no matter. Their conviction was like an arrow in flight.

And as such, the lifespan of the human settlement could be measured as the same amount of time it would take for the twin arrows to reach it.

* * *

**Chi Mu System, Mobile Research Station **_**Aeros**_

**Geo-stationary orbit around planet Hope**

Harwood felt like she was on trial.

Maybe it was just as well really. If she escaped Chi Mu with her life, the odds of which were rapidly declining as far as she could tell, chances were she'd be put on a proper trial anyway. Such a trial would no doubt be conducted by the same people who headhunted her, covering their collective arses in a likely successful attempt and by extension, leaving her to rot in a manner befitting the type of gas that came out of the afformiated rear ends. For now though, she was being confronted by people not worried about any particular body part, but were out for blood. Less professional, but far more deadly.

_Lucky me..._

"You know, I would say that you're wasting your time," said the scientist to the faces displayed before her. "But then I'd-..."

"Cut the crap Harwood," snarled Sattler, the apparent ringleader of the bunch. "There's no way you're worming your way out of the truth this time. From what I've heard, nine deaths can be traced directly to you and for all I know, every death in the last forty-eight hours could be as well. So either you start telling the truth or you'll be joining the casualty list."

And there it was. Diplomacy at its finest.

Looking at the screens in front of her, and glancing at the bridge of the _Aeros _(deserted, as per her request for privacy), Harwood reflected that if one added the term "gunboat" to the diplomacy phrase, it described her situation adequately. Sattler, the one occupying the middle of the bridge's viewscreen with his AI in sight, was in command of a retrofitted _Phoenix_-class colony ship and defiantly had the firepower to make such an addition to Hope's list of casualties. To his left was Commander Ling-she looked uncertain, almost confused, but it was clear that she intended on following the captain's orders to the letter. And while Howard and the four Spartan-IIs behind him were planetside, they were adding psychological fuel to Sattler's psychological fire. And with Keancros having refused to offer any correspondence to the scientist, Harwood had found herself without the means to extinguish it.

"Sattler, all I can tell you is what I've been telling you over the past two days," said the ONI spook eventually, hoping beyond hope that the captain's command of authority might translate to respect for it as well. "All the operations of the _Aeros _are classified and-..."

"Cut the crap doctor."

Harwood blinked. So did everyone else for that matter.

At first, the scientist wasn't sure who had spoken. It certainly wasn't Sattler and given their surprised looks, it wasn't Howard or Ling either. It wasn't until one of the Spartans stepped forward that Harwood had an idea as to who it was. And being a brainwashed drone as far as she knew in regards to the Spartan-II Program, it made his interruption all the more surprising.

"I saw Kirk," the NCO began, brushing off the hand of what was presumably his squad leader as it grasped his shoulder. "I saw someone who was supposed to be _dead_. I saw someone who told me to go to you for the answers."

"And you believed him?" Harwood asked tactfully, wondering if there were any chinks in the man's armour.

"He wouldn't have anything to gain by lying. And considering the ODST team's search for SK-018, Sergeant Jefferson's account of events and that a group of miners saw an HEV head towards the relic, it's easy to put two and two together."

_Give me the square root of two and then I'll be impressed..._

It was petty. It was childish. But Harwood knew there was no way out of this. One way or another, the truth would come out. And after all, hadn't she wanted to break her silence? Wouldn't she have done so if Keancros had given her clearance?

_Screw it. I've had enough._

Harwood had given up. Yet as she composed herself for her testimony, it felt strangely...exhilarating.

"Tell me..." began the scientist slowly. "Are any of you aware of the phrase 'waste not, want not?'"

"Yes," said Sattler bluntly, evidently comfortable in speaking for everyone. "Why?"

"Because that was the essence of the Reaper Project," said Harwood. "It's an essence that I think you might be familiar with, captain, especially considering your action over Harvest three years ago. It's taking every man, woman, child and popgun we have to keep the Covenant at bay and even then the success of that is dubious. We're outnumbered, outgunned and the powers that be decided that we have to pool together our resources to survive. Suffice to say, the project's beginnings in 2531, and Harvest being the tip of the iceberg, weren't coincidental."

Sattler seemed to be deep in thought. As for the others...well, Harwood somehow didn't care so much about them. It had been amusing in a sense, keeping Sattler in the dark for three years, but deep down, the spook had wanted it to end. Wanted it all to end, to be free.

"There are many assets that have yet to be fully tapped," Harwood continued, shifting her gaze to the Spartans by Howard. "I think the Spartan-IIs might appreciate this..."

Given their blank stares, they didn't. Or polarized stares. Whatever. It was all academic anyway.

"Reach has a mother lode of titanium waiting to be extracted," continued the scientist. "It also gave birth to genetically enhanced super soldiers. Unfortunately, not everyone succeeded. Some, I'm sorry to hear, washed out. Of those few, some escaped relatively unscathed, able to serve as normal soldiers. Some were crippled in body, but retained their sharp minds. And others, such as Kirk, were completely crippled. Yet even after all that, even after all the suffering they'd went through, they were still considered resources. And as such, SK-018 and SR-005 were transferred to the _Aeros_."

"SR-005?" Howard asked. "Who is-..."

"René."

The voice was soft, yet all heard it. And despite his non-existent expression, the sound alone was enough to make Harwood fight back tears. The despair, the sorrow...

"René-005..." said the Spartan slowly. "It was her, wasn't it? She was crippled just like Kirk. And like him, she couldn't be left alone either..."

"Both had issues with their ceramic ossification," Harwood confirmed. "They...were deemed to be best suited for the project."

An uneasy silence fell across the screens...four if one counted Harwood's. Her gaze lingered on the Spartans, wondering if they understood. She only knew what she'd been entitled to know about the early program, but as far as she knew, none of the children had ever had a choice. Just like her really, what with being headhunted. Would they understand what she'd been forced to do? Would they forgive her for it? Harwood didn't know. It felt like the world had come crashing down and all sense of responsibility had gone with it. In the end, all that was left was guilt, twisting in her insides like a serpent. She'd been force fed the apple of forbidden knowledge and if a divine force existed in this world, it had waited three years to carry out judgement.

"I don't get it..." said Sattler eventually, gazing at the scientist as if truly seeing her for the first time. "Why Hope? Why conduct research here? It's practically a useless world and it's exposed to the Covenant."

"I don't know, Justin," sighed Harwood, finding a chair and sitting in it while rubbing her eyes in weariness. "I do know that the rocks in the mining site by the relic contain electrical charges akin to isotopes, but far more stable. Maybe it's from the relic. Either way, the bulk of the material was used for the Reapers' armour."

Howard muttered something under his breath, something to do with guarding trucks carrying something or other. Well, what of it? All in all, that was the most minor of crimes that had been committed.

Crimes that Harwood felt increasingly responsible for...

"The...assailant's shields," began the Spartan-IIs' squad leader. "They were resistant to human weaponry. Why bother with that?"

Harwood chuckled. "Green Leader, you should be able to answer that question better than any of us."

"What?"

"You've seen it, haven't you? The Insurrection. In typical fashion, humans are often their own worst enemies. And even if the Covenant has taken the top spot, the Insurrection might well be a close second. You've done some quelling yourselves, but the modus operandi is to deploy teams such as yourself against the Covenant. Reaper was the opposite. To take over the job the Spartan-II Program was meant for before first contact was made. To quell dissident through assassination. Green Five can likely vouch for that." Harwood shifted her gaze to him. "He was stealthy, wasn't he? Able to blend in with the shadows."

"Yes, he was," the petty officer murmured. "And in the name of security, that's why you had the EC-55s developed, wasn't it? It was the only thing that could give...SK-018 pause."

Harwood nodded. The drone maybe wasn't so much of a drone after all.

Made her look all the worse by having been one over the past three years...

"The EC-55s..." Harwood began, glad to have steered clear from the subject of Kirk and René, if only briefly. "I assume Sergeant Jefferson gave you a description on some level of how they work, but suffice to say, they fire negatively charged electricity that neutralizes the positive charge of the armour's magnetic shield. After SR-005, the need was made abundantly clear."

"René?" Green Five asked. "What happened? Is she still-..."

"She's dead, petty officer," said Harwood sadly. "I don't know if you can imagine it, but try to imagine what it's like to have your bones twisted into a humanoid form, and then have that form have armour grafted to it. Even with every painkiller available to us, it's a hideous process. René...couldn't take it. She went berserk. In the end, she...was lost to us."

God...everyone was looking at her like she'd played the role of number 1 bearded madman. And hell, maybe she had.

_No, not maybe. _I_ did_._ And it's hardly a saving grace that I didn't want to either..._

"What about the other subject?" Sattler asked. "Kirk?"

"Kirk...was more stable," said Harwood delicately, glancing at Green Five and trying to gauge his emotions. "Stable enough to lull us into a sense of security, kill Doctor Clarke-..."

"The one struck from the personnel record..." the AI murmured.

"...take an HEV and head planetside," the scientist continued, not even bothering to ask how the AI could know such a thing.

"But you're still alive," pointed out Ling, her tone neutral at such a fact. "How did you escape?"

"I didn't," sighed Harwood. "He killed Clarke, but let me live. I don't know why he did that, nor do I know why an HEV rack was placed so close to the lab. The _Aeros _is a retrofitted vessel assigned by my superior."

"And who might that be?" Howard asked.

Harwood didn't answer. Going against her confidentiality mandate was one thing. Identifying the issuer of said mandate was another. It was tempting, sure, to divert attention away from herself, but that might translate to a short term gain for a long term loss.

Either way, with a fourth screen appearing on the monitor, it became a moot point.

"I'm the one you want to talk to about that," the shrouded figure stated. "You can call me Keancros."

* * *

**31****st**** Marine Division Command Center (barracks)**

"That's completely false! Men don't _enjoy _leaving the toilet seat up! We just don't give that much of a damn!"

Rachel Chambers very much wanted to roll her eyes right now, to snatch the magazine from Hawkins's hands and ask where exactly it was published on Harmony so she could torch the building on leave. Still, as her hands were currently occupied with addressing the private's wound and her eyes focused on said wound, she could do nothing but listen to him respond to the claims the fashion magazine was making.

"Oh wow…just wow…"

_Alright. So maybe there is one thing I can do…_

"I mean, just look at ah, son of a bitch!"

Being a medic rather than a doctor, Chambers hadn't taken the Hippocratic Oath. So tying the bandage around Hawkins's shoulder as tightly as possible, she was free to abuse her patient as much as she wanted to.

_Well, almost…_

Given the glare Hawkins gave his comrade, it was clear he wanted the amount of pain he was experiencing to be as far away from "almost" as possible.

"Damnit Chambers, didn't they teach you anything at doctor school?"

The medic snorted. "Jack, first of all, there is no 'doctor's school' as you so eloquently put it. Secondly, I'm a medic, not a doctor. And thirdly, before you ask, yes, there is a difference."

"…what kind of difference?"

Chambers sighed and put the medigel back into her first aid kit. Hawkins was a newbie, but apparently he was one who could defeat her in quipage. And if there was one thing that fighting aliens had taught her, it was that you shouldn't pick fights you couldn't win. Well, not unless you were Admiral Cole of course, but still…

"Hey Chambers, what kind of difference?"

"…shut up Jack."

"Huh?" the private asked curiously. "We on a first name basis now?"

Chambers didn't answer. Rather, she pretended to focus on the contents of her kit, hoping to find some kind of flaw in Optican's products or the need for a biofoam refill. It was a temporary distraction, but she wanted to buy herself some time. Time enough to decide what her next course of action was in regards to her…friend.

"So…" the medic began eventually. "You didn't exactly say what happened in there?"

"Huh?"

"In the…artifact," Chambers continued, closing her kit as she did so. "You know, the temple of gloom that only you and two musclemen came back from."

"Oh, that…" Hawkins began, a grin coming to his features that somewhat suited him. "Well, what can I say? I mean, sure, those super soldier guys are tough, but I helped them out. Wouldn't have got back if not for me. I…"

Chambers drowned Hawkins out. It was obvious that he was lying, that he could have suffered much more than a shoulder wound and it was only thanks to those who "assisted" him that he hadn't suffered more. Still, the most effective lies stemmed from a grain of truth, and the medic was able to separate the grain from the chaff-shit happened, Hawkins was alive and right now, that was all that mattered.

_Just wish I knew why…_the medic reflected, nodding as Hawkins reached the end of his story as he drove the Cougar like a space owl out of slipspace. No answer was forthcoming, and she quickly gave a glance around the barracks to see if anyone else might be listening to the makings of yet another story that could pass for science fiction these days.

"Two guys were barely conscious, but I…

Jack was still wrapped up in his story, so Chambers's glance quickly became something more. The barracks of the command center was modular and like all modular constructs, it was sterile and bare bones. Unlike most other UNSC barracks nowadays however, it was empty. Not a big surprise, all things considered-the few 31st survivors were out doing their rounds and it seemed redundant for the marines of the _Wild Endeavour _to move in, when Hope was set to be evacuated in the near future. Apart from Hawkins and herself, the only signs of human habitation were posters, holo-stills and the occasional piece of printed media.

"And then we got back to Thunderville. Where…well, you know the rest."

The medic turned back to Hawkins. Psychometry was a myth, but she felt no need to put that to the test by staring at the personal belongings of those who had moved on. And considering the subject that her comrade had just reached, and her role in said subject, she didn't want to be caught with her pants down.

…_oh, bad metaphor…_

"Why'd you do it anyway?" Hawkins asked, his former bragging having been replaced with curiosity. "You know, bringing me here, patching me up…hugging me…"

"I…was glad to see you…" said Chambers awkwardly, gingerly running a hand through her hair that had seemed to have gone on a growth spurt over the last day or so.

"You…were glad to see me?" the marine asked. "What, after the Banshee attack and the Covenant attack on Thunderville, you were-…"

Men could be stupid sometimes. Stupid enough to make you beat their ignorance out of them. So, with that being said, Chambers proceeded to…hug him. Again.

"Um…Rachel?"

"We're all that's left…" the medic whispered, her heart rate elevating at the use of her forename amongst other reasons. "Collie, Physon…they're dead. We're the only two left. And damnit, you've had two close shaves with death since the Banshee attack and…and…"

The private trailed off, though didn't release her grip. Emotionally, she was much like she was when Hawkins first made it back to Thunderville-full of relief and letting that relief get to her for a second. However, the emotion was far more stable, more…_real _this time, more…well, something that mere relief couldn't explain. And as Jack gingerly put his arms around her back as well as she closed her eyes in weariness, whatever she was feeling was becoming even harder to quantify. Hell, if she really wanted to go out on a limb, she might as well call it-…

"Not interrupting anything am I?"

_Son of a…!_

It wasn't something that Chambers exclaimed out loud, but as she and Hawkins rapidly broke their embrace and stared at the source of the interruption, it definitely made her want to make the exclamation vocal. Because as far as she was concerned, David Jefferson was indeed an S.O.B. and given the amused smile on his helmetless features, a pretty smug one at that.

"Sergeant Jefferson…" Hawkins began, his tone more controlled and neutral than Chambers could ever remember coming from him. "It's…it's…"

"Spare me private. I've just caught you with your pants down figuratively. Don't give credence to the possibility that I might have found them down literally as well."

Hawkins blushed. And after a quick rustle of paper, he managed to hide it in his copy of _Harmony Weekly_. Chambers however, was having none of it. It wasn't Jefferson's interruption that irked her. It was his mere presence. And she was already sick of it.

"So, _sergeant_, what is it you want this time?" the medic snarled, rising from her seat and glaring at the man by the barracks entrance. "Want to screw us over again?"

"Pardon?"

"Look around…" Chambers said slowly. "Look around this barracks. What do you see?"

"Um…nothing?"

"Exactly!" the marine yelled. "Nothing! You're still here, walking around, while we have nothing! We rescued you! We fought for you! And all of our unit but Jack and I died for you! This…this is all your fault!"

"Um, Rachel?" Hawkins asked gingerly, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Maybe we should-…"  
"No maybes Jack, I want an answer!" the private yelled. "Who is this guy? He's no Helljumper, he's no soldier, he's…he's…fuck it Jefferson, what the hell are you?"

Was it an overreaction? Certainly. Was it warranted? Definitely. At least, that was Chambers's rationale for yelling at an NCO who could prove to be even more authoritarian as Physon. Still, she hardly cared. Her friends were dead and Hawkins had almost joined them. And all the while, Jefferson had been unconscious while his unit had died and unconscious for the attack on Thunderville as well. The ODST, if he really was such a thing, was a survivor. And for all the wrong reasons…

For someone who helped people survive, it was absolutely sickening.

"What am I?" Jefferson asked softly, almost looking…pensive as he did so. "There's numerous answers to that private, ranging from the simple to the complicated. Either way, it's irrelevant. Think what you want about my hand in RRT's demise, it doesn't matter. All I came here for was to tell you that something's been picked up on our sensors and all combat personnel are to report for assignment immediately."

"Picked up?" asked Hawkins curiously. "What's been picked up?"

"Something, private. That's all I know."

_Bullshit…_Chambers told herself, but not really believing it. Her anger, as well as her interaction with Hawkins had left her exhausted. And since there was no reason for Jefferson to lie right now, there was, practically speaking, no reason not to believe them. And while irrationality might suggest otherwise, the marine accepted that now wasn't the time to be irrational.

"So…" the sergeant said eventually, now clearly in control. "Shall we go?"

"Yeah…" sighed Chambers, casting one last regretful, almost guilty look at Hawkins before meeting the ODST's gaze. "Let's go."

* * *

**Video Feeds Bravo, Charlie, Delta and Echo**

**From: UNSC **_**Aeros**_**, UNSC Haven, UNSC **_**Wild Endeavour **_**and 31****st**** command centre**

**To: Keancros**

"So...you're Keancros."

The ghost, in almost every sense of the word, smiled faintly. Sattler had opened this confrontation with a cliché, but at least he'd refrained from saying "we meet at last" or some other tripe that he'd embraced as a kid. Well, no matter. He wasn't a god of fantasy, but he was still a god among men and women right now. His shrouded image was being transmitted to the _Aeros_, _Haven _and _Wild Endeavour _as he spoke and it was completely untraceable. So while he had no real desire to prolong what had to be done, he was perfectly within his rights to do so. All he had to do was convince the others (or in Harwood's case, _remind_) that this was indeed the case.

"Yes, I'm Keancros," the ghost said. "No doubt Doctor Harwood's told you a lot about me."

"Actually, not that much."

"Good. You're all in enough hot water already."

Even if Harwood hadn't cracked under the pressure, Keancros suspected that Sattler would have assumed the role of de facto leader. Rank was one factor, but there was also experience. Ling seemed to lack it and as far as he knew, Harwood had too much experience for his own good. Either way, his hot water comment had three out of the four main recipients glancing uneasily, already on the defensive. Sattler was the main obstacle to go through in turning this FUBAR of a situation into a SNAFU one.

"You know, I was thinking of venting the rest of my spleen on Harwood..." the captain continued, not giving any ground, but not gaining any either. "Still, I think I hate you enough to-..."

"Let's cut the pleasantries captain. You want answers and I'll give them to you. All that's left to decide is whether you want them answered in order.

Sattler didn't answer. Excellent.

"Yes, I'm essentially the director of Project Reaper," Keancros began. "Like Harwood, it wasn't by my own choosing."

"And why's that?" Major Howard asked.

"Because like everything in this universe, pushing the boundaries of science and the human condition cost time and money," answered Keancros, hoping that the major's question would be the exception rather than the rule. "Time and money that are better spent elsewhere."

"What, on more humane methods of research?" Sattler sneered.

Keancros snorted, thinking it was a bit rich of the captain to say that when five tin-men were planetside that had hardly gone through Heaven to get to their overpriced existence. Well, they were beside the point right now.

"No captain, on R and D that goes after the real threat and doesn't see the Insurrection as one. Still, the powers that be wouldn't listen. Still, I was allowed to choose the location. And Hope was that location."

"Why?"

"Because Hope is an enigma," sighed Keancros, wondering how after three years of orbiting the bloody rock Sattler could miss something so obvious. "It straddles the Inner Colony-Outer Colony border. And in an administration that's had to watch over eight hundred worlds until the war began nine years ago, enigmas are unwanted. Enigmas lead to misrepresentation of truth. Enigmas allow me to present Hope as the ideal location for such research-backwater enough to be secret, yet vulnerable enough to be easily wiped out in the event of an attack."

"...you're lying." Sattler whispered, ironically lying to himself.

"Am I?" Keancros asked. "Surely both you and Howard noted how quickly you were transferred away from Harvest. Surely you considered it odd that you never recieved a resupply. Surely you might have wondered why there was never any relief for your forces, or the effort to garrison Hope with an Army force rather than a Marine one. Hope's easily forgotten. No Insurrection activity, little produce of note, no tactical advantage. Hope's gray, and like everything of that colour, it doesn't stand out. The chaos after Harvest was the perfect time to have you reassigned."

It briefly occurred to Keancros that he might have indeed crossed into the realm of "gloating villain," given the looks that Sattler and Howard were giving him, while both Ling and Harwood looked uneasy or, in the doctor's case, almost guilty. Well, they could think what they wanted to. He could have explained that he hadn't hoped that it would come to the point where Hope would be attacked, that he hoped that Reaper would fail and that the debacle would be forgotten. But things hadn't worked out like that. And surprisingly, it was the dumb AI who pointed that out.

"But it didn't come to that, did it?" the piece of coding asked. "Reaper didn't fail. Not in the way you might have hoped for."

Keancros nodded, glad that the shrouding around his transmitted visage couldn't be lifted by an AI whose skills lay in navigation. "Reaper's failed, but it took three years to do so. Well, no matter. Everything, and I do mean _everything _from the _Aeros _has reached me eventually. That includes the HUDs from the two subjects. I've seen what they've seen, I've heard what they've heard. I've watched people die and when the next budgetary committee is convened, everyone will see it too. The Spartan-IIs are overpriced, overvalued tin-men, even if no-one can see it. But I have all the evidence to show that this kind of waste of time and life won't be repeated."

Did they believe him, the ghost wondered? Did they see him as a malignant manipulator, a kind of "Big Brother" behind the scenes, waiting for the right moment before pouncing? He might have been 550 years too late for that, but he could appreciate the similarities. And there was also the issue of life...he almost hated himself for feeling glad that deaths could be directly attributed to the second subject, that he'd watched men die right through a HUD. Trading lives for time was one thing, but all those lives had brought was proof that might end up being supplementary. Reaper had failed the moment SK-018 left the _Aeros_. And if it wasn't for his current position, and the issue of the relic, he might have closed things then and there.

"Why are you telling us this?" Sattler asked eventually. "Why spill the beans?"

"Because I have nothing to lose. You lot however, are a different story."

"Because we _do_ have everything to lose?"

"No. Because you've already lost it."

And there was it. The coup de grace. The point where everyone on screen, even the AI and the bitch's puppets stirred, wondering what on Earth Keancros could mean. They were on edge, and though the shrouding system prevented them from seeing it, Keancros felt so as well. This was the point where he had to ensure that no-one would attempt to mention Hope again.

"Sattler, your battle group was designated as FOX, as opposed to Rapier," the ghost began. "I won't speculate on your own level of speculation as to why, but FOX isn't a name, it's a designation. Force Operation X. Black-ops. Non-existent. You've had the designation for three years. Any claims you make would be cross referenced with something that doesn't exist. Or, more specifically, hasn't existed for three years and officially disappeared after Harvest, along with every swabbie and jarhead that sailed with it."

Sattler opened his mouth...then closed it. Bullseye.

"Harwood..." Keancros continued, shifting his gaze to the doctor. "You've broken confidentiality and there's half a dozen codes I could cite as to what happens to people that do so. The system forced this on both of us, but unlike you, I can use it to my advantage. And you don't want that to happen, do you?"

If anything, the blonde was even less of a challenge then Sattler. While the captain was regaining some of his composure, Harwood had regained nothing. She understood that she'd lost everything, including who she was. In a sense, she was a shell. A shame really, but there were worse fates in this world. Fates that, if Sattler's rate of recovery continued, Keancros might have to remind him of.

"And me?" came a third voice.

The ghost winced. He'd forgotten about Ling.

"Commander Ling..." Keancros began. "You...well, let's face it. You've responded to an unauthorized transmission without clearance. You've deviated from your patrol route. Minor charges of course, but easily blown out of proportion."

"And that's what you're doing, isn't it?" Sattler asked. "Blowing this out of proportion."

"No captain, I'm trying to avoid a scenario where more people die than necessary."

"Bullshit. Like you even give a-..."

"Don't push me, captain," Keancros snarled, wishing that the man would just _shut up _and let him get to the last pressing issue of this debriefing. "Not when you've endangered so many lives already."

"Pardon? What are you talking ab-..."

"The Cole Protocol, Sattler. Ring any bells?"

Keancros didn't like to think of himself as petty. He was doing this out of necessity, he reminded himself, that he was fully capable of separating business from pleasure. Yet it was so...gratifying to see Sattler squirm the way he did. Not just at Keancros, but from the gaze of everyone else on the screens before him. Big Brother indeed...

"The Cole Protocol..." asked Ling curiously. "What's that?"

"Something, like Captain Sattler here, doesn't technically exist yet," Keancros announced smugly. "Not in naval law anyway. But Justin here knows about it, don't you? Cole's Law, isn't that what it was called sometimes? A protocol that even if it took years for the UEG to hammer out, was law to his own fleet? The same fleet you were part of at Harvest? A fleet that was required to purge their databases of navigation data upon detection of any Covenant vessel? A purge that my networks have indicated that you've failed to do so?"

Harwood looked curious. Ling looked uneasy, likely wondering what this meant for her as someone who hadn't been part of the admiral's fleet. Sattler looked...well, he looked like a lawyer whose client had admitted to being guilty after previously agreeing to vouch for innocence. Heck, maybe he was the client himself. Either way, Keancros knew that he'd become the proverbial prosecutor and decided to press his case.

"Granted you're no longer part of Cole's fleet..." the ghost said slowly. "But in twelve months, give or take, the Cole Protocol will become official. That's short enough time for this issue to be carried over to that time period. You won't have broken fleet law, captain. You'll have broken Naval Command law. Treason, in a sense. There's even talk of a life sentence or the death penalty for those who break it."

"I..." Sattler began. "I..."

"Forgot?" Keancros asked. "Understandable. Or was it that you wanted a quicker approach vector to the Inner Colonies once you got off this rock? Either way, it doesn't matter. Or rather, it won't matter as long as you think the same about all I've just told you."

"But...the evacuation ships..." Harwood began. "How are they-..."

"Evacuation ships?" Keancros laughed. "You still think they're coming? Forget it Harwood. Remember what I told you? Hope's an enigma. Get evacuation ships coming and that'll change."

"But...the people!" Howard exclaimed. "If the Covenant show up in force, you're-..."

"You have two FTL-capable ships," Keancros snapped, not wanting the second point of this agenda to get bogged down any longer than necessary. "I'm not willing to sacrifice their lives any more than your captain here. There's only one life I'm willing to sacrifice right now, and that's the one who isn't subject to the feebes of thought that we're slaves to."

At first, no-one understood what he meant. At first, no-one thought to check the humming sound coming from the bridge of the _Haven_. But eventually, they got the hint. Sattler's AI turning brighter and brighter, not to mention the screaming managed to get their attention. And even after the AI had disappeared, even after the scampering of the _Haven_'s bridge crew died down, it seemed that all the idiots had trouble believing it.

"You...you killed him!" Harwood exclaimed. "Keancros...you..."

"_Him_?" Keancros exclaimed. "Jesus Christ Harwood, you have been here a long time if you think an AI is a person! All I've done is transmitted viral scavengers from the _Aeros _to the _Haven _and got rid of the one piece of completely subjective evidence in regards to records of this event."

"You bastard!" Sattler yelled. "Where are you? How did you do it? How can you control the _Aeros _at the touch of a button!"

"Through the same way the proverbial finger can pull the proverbial trigger of the proverbial pistol that's pointed at your head, Sattler! You can miss your AI all you want, you can whine that you'll have to triangulate a friendly star system manually, but the only people who care are...well, for people who endanger the secrecy of Earth's location, how much sympathy will you get? And besides, haven't you forgotten about the most pressing issue of all? The relic?"

If their lives and careers weren't on the line, maybe one of the talking heads might have realized that Keancros was changing the subject. Indeed, the deletion of the AI might have been a bit extreme, but it was better to be safe than sorry. And after all, history was testament to the fact that sometimes the only reason people did something was because they could do it. Keancros was indeed a god among then at that point. All that was different was that he had something akin to a genuine reason for it.

"The relic?" Howard asked. "What about it?"

"The relic?" the ghost asked. "Only that it's what brought the Covenant here in the first place and got you in the situation you're in now on the ground, major. Obviously I can't tell you everything about it, but I think it would be in everyone's best interests if both the relic and its current occupant were destroyed."

"You're talking about Kirk..." one of the Spartans murmured, surprising everyone as much as Keancros that he would actually contribute to this perfectly civil discussion. "What is it, Keancros? What does it do?"

Keancros chuckled. "What does it do? Petty officer, you and the rest of your squad should know the answer to that question. Heck, you've had seventeen years to come to it."

"Keancros, is it that you won't tell us?" Howard asked, glancing at the Spartans with what looked like suspicion in light of the ghost's quip. "Or that you can't?"

"Can't...won't..." Keancros sighed, waving a hand idly. "Reach my pay grade major and you'll find that they both become the same thing. And that's all I have to say to you."

Or, as he cut the link with his audience, anyone else for that matter.

* * *

**UNSC **_**Haven**_

**Status: Maintaining geo-stationary orbit around planet Hope, Chi Mu System**

Gone. Ulysses was gone.

At first, all Sattler could do was stand and stare. Stand like Penelope waiting for the source of the AI's namesake. Stare like Athena as she watched the sailors make for home. Be as silent as those turned to stone by Poseidon.

_Or was that Zeus? Or was it..._

Crap, he didn't know. All he knew was that Ulysses was gone. Disappeared. Vanished. And that it was affecting him more than the deletion of an AI should. Was it part of Keancros's intention, to grind him down emotionally? Or was he an emotional wreck from the start?

"Um, captain?" came a voice. "Your orders?"

At first, Sattler thought the query came from his own crew. Yet as he gazed around the silent bridge, he realized that it had come from one of the screen's talking heads. Likely either Howard or Ling, since Harwood looked as distraught as he felt right now.

"Um, orders..." began the captain slowly. "I...well..."

With a flick of a switch, he cut out the visual and audio feed from the bridge's flat screen. He couldn't face them. Not now. Maybe not ever.

"Ensign Snickett..." the captain began slowly, turning to face the young girl-one of many faces that seemed like ghosts like now. "Your record indicates that you're skilled in manual navigation."

"Um, yes sir," she answered. "Commendations. Why?"

"Because..." began the captain slowly, walking over to the tac-map and changing it to a star one. "We're going to head back into the Inner Colonies. And with Ulysses and our navigation gone, we're going to have to do it manually."

"What? But that's-..."

"Lieutenant Tuckett," Sattler continued, turning to face another bridge officer. "I'm placing you in charge of logistics."

"Logistics, sir?"

"Yes, a cross reference of space and personnel. I need an estimate of how many civilians we can fit on this rust bucket."

"Um...yes sir."

"Good," answered the captain. "The rest of you, carry on with your duties."

It was formal, it was bland and Sattler almost wished that the Covenant would attack right now, so that he could give orders to every one of his crew and not reflect on how he'd let them down. A vital component of their ship was gone and if the Covenant ship was recovered, and had somehow accessed their navigation systems...well, that was just one more thing to consider in this hastily formed plan of getting people off Hope, getting them to safety and taking out the relic as well. Because as much as he loathed Keancros right now, Sattler supposed he was telling the truth.

_Or was he?_

Part of Sattler's mind, the same part that had lost a few brain cells when Ulysses disappeared pointed out that the focus on the relic might have been a distraction. Keancros was close...he had to be, to communicate in real-time and delete an AI on a moment's notice. If he had enough time, he could perhaps hunt his vessel down-Chi Mu wasn't that large a system and there were only five planets to reside at, only one of which was a gas giant. Yet if he found him, what then? Engage in debate? Order his crew to fire on another UNSC ship in an act of petty revenge? Neither option was particularly appealing. So with all other options removed to him, all Sattler could do now was give orders and face the music. Or rather the faces of his allies on the flat screen.

Meeting their gazes, Sattler felt the music become syncopated.

"Captain, what's-..."

"Sattler, you-..."

"Sir, are we-..."

"Enough!" Sattler exclaimed. To his surprise, it worked. Ling looked ready to take orders, Howard looked ready to do something along those lines and Harwood still looked as bad as he felt. To his surprise, the captain felt a wave of pity surge through him for her. He'd been burdened with the truth for a few minutes. She'd been burdened with it for three years. And if Keancros was to be believed, she hadn't wanted any of it. Personal responsibility was subjective, but serving under a man like that...no wonder she hadn't broken confidentiality earlier.

"We may not have much time..." the captain began, able to turn his thoughts...and gaze...away from the doctor. "Operating under the assumption that Keancros is telling the truth, no help's coming. In regards to the timing of a Covenant arrival, we should assume that it should be imminent."

"Pardon?" Howard asked. "But how could we know-..."

"We don't, major. But since their main attack force has been defeated, I don't see any reason why they wouldn't have called for help by this point. Either way, I'm not going to entertain the possibility that we have enough time to take the ship for ourselves. Alien technology won't do us any good if we're not alive to use it."

"You think anyone is coming out of this alive?" Harwood whispered.

Sattler winced. That was another possibility he didn't want to entertain.

"We've been screwed over," the captain continued. "I'm not waiting for the Covenant to take those screws out of our anvil with a hammer, so our first order of business is getting everyone off this planet. Yes, it'll be tight. No, I don't know if we could sustain such numbers over the time it would take to get to a friendly system. And no, I don't know how long manual navigation will take either."

"Pardon me sir, but I still have my navigation data," Ling ventured. "I could-..."

"Negative commander. We're going in separate directions and that means no transmission of data. For all we know, the Covies could be listening in on our every word. And if they intercept navigation data...well, you weren't at Harvest. You haven't seen what they do to worlds they stumble across."

She probably had, all things considered. She could probably deliver the data manually. Yet somehow Sattler barely considered this. He felt like a failure. An absolute failure. He'd sat by waiting for help that wasn't coming. He'd let a...crew member be deleted. He'd failed to live up to Cole's legacy, to enact the safeguard that might be all that was really keeping the Inner Colonies safe. In the end, all he could do was follow orders to the latter. Cole's and...Keancros's. And while he'd "suggested" taking the relic out, it might as well have been an order in the captain's mind.

"There's another point to consider in all this..." the CO continued. "The relic. That bloody relic that started all this. And since our MAC's back online, we're going to do what I should have done from the start. Destroy it."

"What?" exclaimed one of the Spartans. "That'll kill Kirk!"

"Um, yes?" Sattler asked, as surprised at the outburst as Howard was. "That's part of the point."

"But he-..."

"Sir, if I may?"

Sattler glanced at his gunnery officer, Lieutenant Turse. An interruption he didn't want, but it beat dealing with mister golden gaze. "What is it son?"

"Sir, I couldn't help but overhear your plan about the MAC strike..." the man began. "And...well, I'm not sure if it's possible."

"What? But our gun is back-..."

"Sir, the MAC's working fine," the lieutenant interrupted hastily. "It's the issue of accuracy I'm worried about. Hope's clouds are thick. Really thick. We'd need to launch the shell at a slow velocity to ensure that Thunderville isn't caught in the blast. Yet with a blast that small, we'd have to be dead on target."

Sattler nodded, though was inwardly fuming. That bloody gun...if it was working yesterday, he might have been able to save his battle group. And now that it _was _working, it was practically useless. He might as well-...

"Sir, if I may?"

Sattler blinked. Yet another Spartan-II had spoken. And not the same one that had interrupted earlier, even though he looked like he wanted to.

_Christ, I can tell them apart now?_

"The issue is accuracy, right?" the Spartan asked. "What if the target was painted? We use a targeting system and guide the ship's cannon."

"Does that technology even exist?" the captain asked.

"Not yet," the petty officer answered. "Ship MACs are mainly used for space combat. But talk filters through and there's already the concept of using orbital MACs for striking ground targets. The principle is sound."

"...alright," said Sattler eventually. "Green Two, was it?"

"Yes sir."

"Good. Take a vehicle and get within range of the artefact. Call down our hammer and we'll strike the anvil."

"Yes sir, thank you sir."

"What?" one of the Spartans exclaimed. "Kirk's still in there! Didn't you listen to what was said? He's not-..."

"This briefing is over," Sattler interrupted, not sure what the big deal was, why Green 5 was so against this course of action, after all Keancros's baby monster had did. "Unless you have any queries related to our timetable of evacuation, there shouldn't be any queries at all. Dismissed."

Even as Green 5 stormed out of Howard's command centre, it felt good to be back in command.

* * *

**31****st**** Marine Division Command Center (exterior)**

"Isaac, wait up!"

Petty Officer Second Class Isaac-039 didn't care what Vinh had to say any more than he cared about his full title. He didn't care that Sattler was in command. He didn't care about Howard's task of pinpointing something on long range sensors. Right now, he didn't care about anything.

"Green Five, hold it!"

"What do you want Vinh?" the NCO yelled, not glancing either at Green 4 or any of the bemused jarheads around him. "Don't you have an evac to oversee!"

"Don't you?"

Isaac ground to a halt. For all his rage, for all his frustration, duty was a thing in itself. Duty was what Kirk had turned away from. Duty was what Keancros had misinterpreted. Duty was…hell, he was even beginning to forget what duty was all about.

_Might as well keep walking then…_

Or not. Vinh had reached him and her firm grip on his shoulder indicated that she wasn't about to let go.

"What is it then?" Green 5 asked glumly, knowing a lost battle when he saw it.

At first, she didn't answer. In a sense, that was understandable, given that she was occupied with taking her helmet off. Why she was doing this was another matter. Did she want a heart to heart? A 'person moment?' Isaac didn't care. Even with the helmet slung under her arm, even with her hard, mostly Asian features bearing down on him, she might as well still be looking for a polarized visor.

"Isaac, how long have we known each other?" Isaac's fellow NCO asked eventually.

"What, how long I've been on Green Team?" the petty officer asked. "I don't know, maybe-…"

"Isaac, the answer is seventeen years," Green 4 interrupted. "Since Reach. Seventeen years of training. Seventeen years of service. And not once in those seventeen years have I seen you like this?"

"Like what?"

"Like a wild animal that's only being kept in place by a leash."

Isaac's helmet was on, but it felt like he'd been slapped. Tension with Joshua had become the norm recently. But coming from Vinh…it was somewhat surprising. He'd got on with her well over the past few years, yet now she was the one chewing him out.

"Vinh, I…" the Spartan-II began. "I…damnit Vinh, in the space of a few hours, I've found out that René was…was _murdered _and that Kirk's become a monster! How do you think I feel?"

"We've all lost friends, even after augmentation," Vinh answered calmly. "That doesn't make you special."

Isaac remained silent, the only sounds being the chatter from the patrolling jarheads. Vinh was right in a sense. He'd seen death and dealt it before, and he wasn't the only one who'd lost friends in augmentation. He'd grieved for Sam just like everyone else on Chi Ceti and hadn't been reciprocal to the news of any other Spartan's death or disappearance either. Yet part of his mind, a selfish part left over from his childhood pointed out that no-one had lost their two closest friends in the same instant, nor been forced to deal with their ghosts nearly a decade later.

"Isaac, you're a better soldier, a better…person than this," Vinh continued, as if reading his mind. "You used to be dependable, likeable. But now…Isaac, I'm worried about you."

"What, as a team member?"

"No, as a friend," answered Green 4, clearly meaning every word of it. "And as a friend, I'm going to ask you to get it all off your chest before you suffocate from it. Because there's people on this world that need you Isaac, and I don't just mean the rest of Green Team."

Green 5 sighed. Vinh was right, if only about getting his frustration out. Both for his sake and for everyone else's.

"It's…about Kirk," the Spartan-II began. "He…well, you know what he's become. But his actions…they don't add up?"

"Pardon?"

"Vinh, he killed Clarke, but not Harwood," Isaac began, releasing the floodgates of his vocabulary. "He could have killed her but didn't. Why?"

"Maybe he-…"

"The marines," Isaac continued. "He could have almost certainly killed Hawkins yet let him live, why? Grace-he could have took her out in an instant. He would have known she was the greatest threat, yet didn't kill her. Why?"

"Isaac, Kirk-…"

"And there was me," Isaac continued. "He could have killed me, yet let me live. Heck, he could have killed all three of us even after the grenade. Yet he let us go, why? It's like…like…"

"Like he's still human?"

"Maybe," Isaac murmured, not sure if he really believed that. "But I can't help but feel that we've missed something. Kirk wants to use the relic for something…we're missing the bigger picture. And it's like…like his actions are the key to unlocking it."

Vinh remained silent. Isaac could tell that while she sympathized with him, she wasn't so reciprocal to his train of thought. He could understand that-she hadn't known Kirk like he had. He might have been 'wild,' but never on anything approaching this level. René had supposedly gone insane. Yet Kirk's actions were rational. Or, at least they were bar letting assailants live to report to their superiors. Why let them go? What could he have to gain from it? And if he had nothing to gain yet felt enough compassion to let them live, why didn't that compassion go the whole way?

Isaac didn't know. And he hated himself for it.

"Listen, Isaac…" Vinh began. "If there's one thing I've learnt over the last decade, is that not all actions make sense. Take the Covenant for example. They're waging a war of genocide against us and they've yet to issue any compelling reason as to why."

"Kirk's a human though, not an alien."

"But he might as well be," Vinh pointed out. "He's an enemy, Isaac."

"And on whose authority?" Green 5 sneered. "Keancros's? Well, if he's the best the humanity has to offer, then maybe I-…"

"Isaac, look around you," Vinh interrupted. "The men and women around you, whether they be soldier or civilian…_these _are the best that humanity has to offer. Not Keancros. Not anyone like him. Look to the people around you and you'll remember what you're fighting for."

"Which is what?" Isaac asked, having had enough of this.

"What?"

"I asked, what are we fighting for?" the Spartan-II repeated. "I hope you know Vinh, because right now, I have no idea."

Even if Vinh answered, Isaac didn't hear her.

Right now, after seeing the worst of humanity, he wasn't willing to hear anything.

* * *

**CCS-class battlecruiser **_**Divine Crusader**_

**Location: Seven miles north of human settlement, upper canyon wall near Forerunner relic**

"And I'm afraid that is all I can tell you my lord."

If his servant had brought him good news, the Prophet of Devotion might have reassured him that not being able to deliver more information was no issue. But as it was bad news, he did no such thing.

'_Tikawomee, you imbecile…_the san' shyuum mused, his eyes fixated on a piece of the floor of his chambers. _You've ruined everything…_

His servant might have been given the impression that there was no issue, given Devotion's silent, seemingly calm demeanor. Yet the Prophet was anything but. Perhaps the most useful analogy was that of a tornado, only the eye was on its exterior. Within the san 'shyuum raged all the fury of a gas giant's storm.

_Disobedient…negligent…incompetent!_

"My lord? Are you well?"

Devotion met the gaze of his servant, yet neglected to answer the question. The Prophet knew that he would have to move quickly…far more quickly than he was comfortable with, given the relic's apparently hazardous nature given the silence of the sangheili lance. It almost begged the question as to what had happened to the Covenant's foremost client race, whether all the sons of Sanghelios on this vessel had been struck down by a virus that robbed them of their loyalty. Well, if that were the case, he'd have to eradicate it before it mutated again and messed things up even further.

"Gather your followers while I summon the traitor…" Devotion began slowly, flexing a fist and dreaming of choking the shipmaster to death with it. "It's time he paid for his crimes…"

* * *

_A/N_

_I suppose this is what one calls an "info-dump chapter." Or, at least it's what I called it, because the entire thing felt similar to the one I did for _Denial_. Easier in the sense in that I had less info to 'dump' by virtue of fewer chapters leading up to it, harder in that there's more of the story to come rather than all loose ends being wrapped up here and now._

_Since I've started an A/N, I guess this is the point where, with some of said plot points being revealed, is where I explain why Halsey's journal is both a boon and curse for this. The 'blessing' I recieved for this fic was the ceramic ossification information, where it meant that reversing the effects on Kirk and René was possible. The potential curse is that since that plot point's already been brought up in canon material, canon material also has the precedent to bring them back. Not immediatly, but especially with the data pads and the Assembly, I got the feeling that much of _Reach_'s material was being set up to give 343 Industries something to play with. Still, I'll cross the canon bridge if I come to it._

_Update (08/05/2011): Corrected spelling error._


	15. Eleventh Hour

.

**Halo: Shadows of Hope**

**Chapter 15: Eleventh Hour**

Within the Void, the bearers of the truth carried light.

Light sought out its sources through entropy, whether it be the emptiness of the material universe or the Void itself. However, other sources called to the light. Specifically, only one source, originating from the fourth planet of an unremarkable star system.

And as such, the light moved towards it.

* * *

**Chi Mu System, ****31****st**** Marine Division Command Center**

**Planet Hope**

"Echo-212, requesting landing co-ordinates."

"Hotel-911, proceeding to _Haven_."

"This is Charlie-159, we've got too much in our payload. We'll have to touch back down."

"This is-…"

Howard drowned out the chatter from his mind. It was relevant, but only to those in the command centre actually performing command and control duties. Technically that included himself in theory, but in practice, it was just his job to oversee those doing the work. Which was just as well. He was tired, he had a headache and there was no coffee or analgesic in sight. Still, as he fought his way to the command center's viewscreen, he took solace that at least Sattler looked as bad as he felt. Maybe even worse.

Considering that Sattler was the one who would have to bear the largest burden of transport when it came to it, the major couldn't blame him.

"Well Howard?" the captain asked, taking a sip of what the marine supposed was coffee but actually looked like brown sludge. "What's the sit-rep?"

"Evacuation's underway, and the people are proceeding in an orderly manner to the designated LZs," answered the major. "The rate of evacuation though…well, it could be better."

"I've noticed," murmured the captain grimly, passing his sludge to a passing ensign. "The _Haven's _barely got any people onboard right now and none of the _Wild Endeavour's _Pelicans have returned yet."

"It'll get better," Howard pointed out. "All we have to do is designate more landing zones and-…"

"Then why haven't you?" Sattler asked. "Thunderville is cramped, but the area around it is open. If we spread the D77-TC's out, assign more-…"

"That would leave them too exposed," Howard pointed out. "It's a risk I'd rather not take."

Silence fell between the marine and swabbie, broken only by the hustle and bustle on both their ends. Howard knew it was within Sattler's power to order otherwise, but he also knew that that was unlikely. The confrontation with Keancros was still taking its toll on the captain and initially, the major had wondered whether this operation was going to get any oversight at all. Still, the sensor issue was one he'd rather not bring up, how there was the occasional indication of something(s) being detected north. If it became important he'd report it but for now, Howard wanted to confine the Pelicans to Thunderville-if a flood came, at least the soldiers and civilians would be on the right side of the floodgate.

_Well, almost everyone…_

"How's the painter going?" Howard asked, his reflections on Thunderville's defensibility reminding him of the only human outside its walls bar Harwood's little monster. "You're in contact with him, right?"

"Sierra-044?" Sattler asked. "Last I heard, he'd arrived within proximity of the artifact. He should have the target painted within minutes."

"Good…well, that should be all. Howard out."

With a click, the image of Sattler faded, leaving the major alone with his own thoughts and the microcosm of the entire situation on Hope that the command center represented. He was tired, and didn't want to draw out the conversation any further. All he wanted to do now was let events take their turn, sign form a, berate pilot b and hope that the eventuality of c was never reached. If it wasn't for the prospect of actually getting off this rock, he might have collapsed in a chair then and there. This evacuation seemed like a knee jerk reaction, but it admittedly had its benefits.

"This is Charlie-159, we now have optimal payload. We'll be making our way to the _Haven_, over."

"Acknowledged Charlie-159. Godspeed."

Howard allowed himself a small smile. There would always be hiccups in any operation. But at least in this one, they were the exception rather than the rule. The issue of the amount of room on the two starships orbiting Hope was another matter, but he supposed Sattler and Ling would cross that bridge when they came to it. Right now, the only bridge he had to cross was-…

"Major! Major Howard!"

It was a miracle that such words were able to reach the CO from the other side of the room. It was even more of a miracle that the utterer of them was able to fight his way through the tides of CIC to reach its head honcho. Yet somehow, the jarhead messenger boy did it. Unfortunately.

"Major!" the marine repeated, seemingly having trouble with branching out from his previously established vocabulary of two words. "I…you…"

"Slow down son," Howard murmured, wishing that he could slow down himself. "Just take a breath, calm down and tell me what the matter is."

The kid took a breath, but he still looked anything but calm. And as his verbatim branched out even further, the marine could understand why.

"The Covenant sir. A force twice as large as the one that attacked yesterday. And it's right outside town."

* * *

**Spartan-044 (Anton)**

**Location: Upper valley walls adjacent to alien relic**

**Mission: Paint target for orbital magnetic accelerator cannon strike**

"Sierra-044, in position, over."

"Acknowledged Sierra-044. Proceed to designate target for orbital strike, over."

"Will comply. Sierra-044, out."

It seemed a bit…odd, somehow. Usually, Anton was referred to as "Green 2," bar a more informal designation. Out here though, he was on his own, his only contact being the _Haven_. Out here, he wasn't part of a team. Out here, he was only an alpha-numeric. And as he adjusted the laser guidance system on his SRS99 sniper rifle, the petty officer was perfectly comfortable with that. He wasn't a sniper in the same league as Linda or Fred, but he made for a good field scout. Out here, alone, in the silence…the only welcome interruption would be the sound of waves hitting a beach and there wasn't a world where that was possible in this entire star system.

_Speaking of which…_

Anton briefly glanced away from his work, his polarized gaze shielding him from the light of Chi Mu. His visor was redundant right now however-the star was faint enough at the best of times and as it sank below the eastern horizon, its light was simply pitiful. All in all, the only real indicator of its presence was the long shadow it was forming against the Spartan and his Warthog transport. Which, like the solitude, suited Green 2 just fine. He was a shadow in every sense of the world and being so close to both the relic and Covenant battlecruiser, that was for the best. Even if the relic wouldn't be standing anymore in a couple of seconds…

"Sierra-044 to _Haven, _over," the Spartan whispered, a thin red line extending from the sniper rifle to the relic. "The target is painted. Now call down the thunder."

* * *

**CCS-class battlecruiser **_**Divine Crusader**_

**Location: Seven miles north of human settlement, upper canyon wall near Forerunner relic**

"Ah, 'Tikawomee. So glad you could join us."

"Us?"

"My mistake. Please, come in."

Standing in the doorway of Devotion's personal quarters, 'Tikawomee hesitated. The Prophet had effectively given him an order and he was obliged to obey it. Yet he could not help but wonder why an order was given when the Prophet looked…_happy_. Or at least that was the impression the san 'shyuum was conveying. Yet what his master would be happy about right now after everything that had gone wrong was a mystery. If anything, the sangheili expected Devotion to become happy after he-…

"That wasn't a request, ship master. Please, come in."

Shaking his thoughts aside, 'Tikawomee did as instructed. Overanalyzation would have to wait. The sound of the door closing seemed to agree with him.

_By the gods…what is that _smell?

"So, 'Tikawomee…" the Prophet began, clearly warming up to something and preventing the sangheili from pursuing the repulsive scent filling his nostrils. "I believe you have news for me."

"I…yes, my lord," the sangheili spluttered, caught off guard at Devotion's insight. "I actually sought you out before you summoned me to relay it to you."

"And? What is it?"

"Not so long ago, I regained contact with the V'tar and B'las Legions; the flanking forces of the J'ma Legion. They are currently within range of the human settlement and will proceed with their attack shortly." The sangheili let himself smile. "It's over, my lord. We've won."

"_We_?" Devotion sneered. "What's this _we _you refer to?"

The smile faded. So did 'Tikawomee's confidence for that matter.

"'Tikawomee, you can present yourself as a loyal servant who's salvaged victory from the jaws of defeat, but you cannot fool me," the san 'shyuum continued, his façade of pleasantry having gone the same way as the ship master's confidence. "A mere unit ago, I ordered you not to contact the Fleet of Purity. And yet you did so. So even when your forces have emerged from the nether and lay waste to the human pile of refuse, don't think for a moment that the victory belongs to you."

"We…will achieve victory before the fleet arrives…" said the sangheili slowly, flexing his fingers slowly.

"Indeed. Which means you wasted their time and mine."

"Wasted time?" 'Tikawomee whispered, his fingers forming a fist. "My lord, the human settlement is one thing. The human starships are another. Even if we achieve victory on the ground, we'll need the fleet to-…"

Devotion brought his fist down. And for a species as frail as the san 'shyuum, its echo was enormous.

"'Tikawomee, I care not for your reasoning…" the Prophet hissed, leaning forward and meeting the ship master's gaze with his own. "My orders, my reasoning, my goals…_these _are the only things you should be concerned about! Now obviously that isn't the case, but I'll assume that at least some of that concern applies to your position within our Covenant! And if that's true, you'll answer my question as to why the fleet's arrival is imminent when it should be nowhere near this star system!"

Devotion was trying to assert his authority, to return the status quo. Clicking his mandibles, the sangheili hoped to make it clear that it wasn't working. He was Devotion's servant, not his slave. Gone were the days when he was willing to follow the Prophet's orders without question. He'd saved the _Divine Crusader _from destruction and by the gods, the san 'shyuum would realize that.

"A unit ago, when you gave the order…" 'Tikawomee began. "That nonsensical order to send the fleet away, I gave my own. I respect your will, my lord, if not your…appreciation of tactics. I ordered them to remain at the system's edge, to engage if necessary."

"So you defied me…" Devotion whispered. "You defied me right from the start."

"Since you've defied common sense time and time again, yes, I defied you. And I think it's fair to say that every rational mind in the Covenant would agree with me. So, since you're all done spying…"

'Tikawomee trailed off. Not due to Devotion, who looked like a zap-jelly ready to burst, but from this entire situation. Devotion had called him out on his transmission to the fleet…but how could he have known such a thing?

"How did you do this?" 'Tikawomee asked.

"Do what?"

"Discover my transmission," the sangheili whispered. "How could you know what I did? How…how did you know about the nature of our descent before I gave you my report? What did you mean by your ambitions. What…what did you mean by _us_?"

The Prophet smiled. And while he didn't feel fear from seeing it, 'Tikawomee came closer than he cared for.

"Astute questions, shipmaster…" said the san 'shyuum slowly. "Questions that I'm left to wonder as to whether they've only popped into your empty skull just now, or have festered here the whole time. Well, I suppose it doesn't matter anymore."

"I'll decide what matters, my…comrade."

"Indeed? Well my…friends might think otherwise." The Prophet let out a chuckle. "But since you asked about them, why not meet them?"

At first, 'Tikawomee didn't know what Devotion was talking about. With a click of the san 'shyuum's fingers, that changed in an instant.

_What in the…_

'Tikawomee's train of thought came to a halt. Five figures had stopped it. Five figures that were in the midst of deactivating their active camouflage. Five figures that were evidently the source of the stench he'd smelt earlier. Five figures that shouldn't have access to that kind of technology. Five figures that explained why Devotion had said come join _us_. Five figures that were…

_Oh my gods…_

"Jiralhanae," declared Devotion, gesturing at the five brutish creatures spread throughout the room. "My loyal servants."

_By the Forerunners! This is madness!_

While his thoughts raged with the fury of the gods, 'Tikawomee's body was frozen. Yes, there were some jiralhanae on this ship, tending to the most mundane of its maintenance systems that were below a huragok, but well suited to their primitive race's cranial capacity. But the presence of these jiralhane…jiralhanae that had access to cloaking technology and from what he could tell, Spikers and serrated blades…this was beyond the pale.

Pale…it was indicative of 'Tikawomee's coloration.

"Devotion, what…what is this?" the sangheili spluttered, spinning around in light of the brutes' leers. "You…you…"

"Employed jiralhane as my personal servants?" Devotion asked. "Used them to observe you, to gather data before you even presented it to me? To inform me of your contacting the Fleet of Purity? To make me realize how useful they are when compared to your own incompetence?"

"Incompetence?" 'Tikawomee exclaimed. "It was these simpletons' incompetence that prevented us from the Reliliquary humans warning their kind of our war machine nine years ago!"

Devotion waved a hand idlely. "Unlike some of our leaders, I believe in second chances. It's why I haven't removed you from command until now."

"Removed from…Devotion, this is madness! Arming jiralhanae on a ship like this is one thing, but to do it without my knowledge…you…you…"

The san 'shyuum chuckled. "Keep repeating yourself 'Tikawomee. My servants love it."

That was true at least. One, maybe two of the barbarians was chuckling and the others' leers had become more jovial. Well, 'Tikawomee thought, it mattered little. Jiralhanae always obeyed their leaders, having retained their pack psychology from when they were swinging through the trees of their homeworld. All he had to do was remind them of it and put Devotion in his non-military place.

"Devotion, this has gone on far enough," 'Tikawomee declared. "I am the shipmaster of the _Divine Crusader _and will give the orders in a time of war. So no matter what you may think, no matter what you may have done, these jiralhanae fall under my command."

"Oh, I'm afraid that just isn't true," Devotion laughed. "You see, 'Tikawomee, I'm their alpha male. And they obey no other."

"You jest…"

"Oh, you doubt me?" the Prophet sneered. "Then let me prove it to you." With a glint in his eye, Devotion turned to one of the jiralhanae and said two words. Two words that would be the last that Udo 'Tikawomee would ever hear.

"Kill him."

Letting out roars of bloodlust, the jiralhane proceeded to do just that.

* * *

If the jiralhane were lacking in one aspect of combat, it was subtlety.

Devotion couldn't argue with the results of their assassination and had no intention to. Still, as pleasing as it was to gaze upon the shipmaster's mangled corpse, he wished his followers hadn't been so messy about it. The splatters of blood did nothing to add to his room's décor.

"You please me Aratus," said the san 'shyuum to the pack's leader-the same one that had alerted him to the sangheili's final treachery in the first place. "Your methods become you."

"As always my lord, we exist to serve."

_Quite right. And don't you forget it._

Would the other Prophets understand what he'd done? Would they condone it? Would they even find out? Devotion supposed those answers would come in time. But then again, if everything went to plan, whatever those answers were would be irrelevant. The Fleet of Purity's arrival was imminent and as a consequence, the Prophet had far less time to complete his objective than he'd anticipated. Yet with the jiralhane at his side…jiralhanae that would follow him into the depths of Hell itself…maybe he did have enough time. Time enough to seize his destiny…

A destiny Devotion hoped that the sudden boom and blinding light from outside wouldn't jeopardize…

* * *

**UNSC **_**Haven**_

**Status: Maintaining geo-stationary orbit around planet Hope, Chi Mu System**

"Replay that now."

"…sir?"

"I said replay that God damnit!" Sattler yelled, not knowing nor caring who had queried him. Identifying the individual by voice would have taken too much thought and while identification by sight might have made the job easier, it was a diversion that the captain couldn't afford. Not when his eyes were fixed firmly on the bridge's flatscreen. A flatscreen that while currently filled with static, had previously depicted something that he wanted confirmation of. Something that he could scarcely believe.

"Replaying…" came the mystery voice. "And stopped."

Stopped…right now, the only thing that was "stopped" was Sattler's heart.

It had seemed like a formality at the time. Sierra-044's video feed was being beamed up to the _Haven _as he painted the relic for a MAC strike. He trusted Turse's aim and even if the tungsten shell was off target, the relic would still be sent ten ways to Tuesday anyway provided it landed near enough. All in all, Sattler just wanted the satisfaction of seeing the device destroyed or even better, distract him from the logistical nightmare of Hope's evacuation. He couldn't have suspected that the real nightmare was yet to begin. That as the shell came down, some kind of energy shield would surround the relic, absorbing the blast without so much as a hiccup.

"Unbelievable…" the captain murmured.

"Pardon sir?"

Sattler glanced at the mystery man, who turned out to be Turse. "That shield. Covenant energy shields have absorbed MAC rounds before. But for a shield to suddenly pop up in time to intercept the shell? That goes beyond anything we've ever seen."

There was always more to see in this universe indeed. But as Sattler watched the rest of the feed, this was an exception. One or two seconds after the strike, the Spartan-II's video feed cut out. And the captain had no idea how or why.

_Well, time to find out…_

"Sit-rep," Sattler barked, turning to face the rest of his bridge crew that, given their gazes, had been watching the feed as well. "Any contact with Sierra-044?"

"Negative sir. No visuals, no audio. Not even burst transmission is getting through."

_Shit…_

That just about summed it up. Losing contact with the first team sent into the relic was bad enough, but burst transmission had worked back then bar the assault of Harwood's…no, Keancros's little monster. But now there was nothing. So either the shield had spread out the blast somehow towards Sierra-044's position, or there was so much interference that even outside the relic, he was out of contact. Maybe-…

"Sir! Massive energy spike from the surface!"

"The MAC?" Sattler asked, making his way over to Ensign Fryirs. "Is it a reading from that?"

"No sir…" the NCO whispered, her gaze fixed on the readout in front of her. "It's…Hawking radiation."

"Hawking?" Turse asked, walking over as if to see whether his blast had done its job. "You mean like that produced from slipspace drives?"

"Yeah…provided you got the biggest slipspace drive known to Man and increased its size geometrically."

Sattler had a general understanding of astrophysics, but "general" was still just that-general. As long as his ship possessed the ability to enter slipspace and travel faster than the speed of light, he didn't particularly care about the reasons as to how this was possible. But looking at the readout, as the reading climbed into the mesosphere…well, he didn't have to be a scientist to work out that something big was happening.

"What's its source?" Sattler asked. "Where's it…oh."

"Oh" may have been an understatement. "Oh" was what one said when a simple fact was given to them, such as the score of a gravball game or a piece of history, not when history was being made and gravball had become an impossibility. Because considering that the relic was the source, and it was producing more energy than anything man, or even Covenant made…

"The MAC…" Turse whispered. "Did we-…"

"Lieutenant, look at these readouts," Fryirs whispered. "This is…well, on the stellar level, not on the level of solar detritus."

"What?"

"Energy can't be created or destroyed!" the ensign exclaimed. "We couldn't have set this off! A thousand UNSC ships couldn't have!"

Sattler was barely listening. The source of the energy was indeed the relic…seemingly. But he was more interested in what a false color sensor was detecting. A beam of energy extending to or from the relic. A beam that was stretching into space and one that they'd be able to see if human sight went into whatever the hell kind of spectrum the beam was.

_A beam…just like…_

Just like the one the miner reported he and his sister seeing when the relic revealed itself. Only this time, its fanfare was powerful enough that the _Haven _was registering it.

"Alright…" said Sattler eventually, realizing that while he knew nothing about the physics involved in this, he still probably knew more than most of the people on this bridge. "I don't know what's happened but-…"

"Sir, something's happened!"

Sattler glared at the ensign who interrupted him…an individual whose intelligence seemingly hadn't aged along with his body.

"That's the point, mister-…"

"No sir, from at Thunderville!" the man exclaimed, his name tag identifying him as Marsden. "A message from Major Howard! It's the Covenant!"

Sattler felt like he'd just been spaced…or rather how he supposed being spaced would feel like. Right now, it seemed like a possibility.

"Covenant?" the captain asked. "Did you-…"

"Yes sir, Covenant! On the surface! A force twice as large as the one that attacked yesterday and-…"

"Sir, incoming slipspace ruptures!"

Feeling like he was between a rock and a hard place, and that both points were trying to drag him towards them, Sattler spun round back to Fryirs. She was still hunched out over the readout, but as he neared, Sattler could see that the emission of Hawking radiation had become emissions _plural_ and they all had their origins thousands of kilometers away.

That meant only one thing. Whether it was good or bad remained to be seen…

"Marsden, get in touch with Howard!" Sattler barked, not turning his eyes from the display. Nor did Fryirs for that matter, currently in the midst of pinpointing the ruptures' exact location and numbers.

"Twenty…no, twenty-five ruptures…" the ensign murmured. "Formation is…is…"

"Human ships don't emerge from slipspace in formation…" Sattler whispered. "We don't have the technology…"

The captain had whispered those words, but it seemed that everyone on the bridge had heard them. No, scratch that, they _did _hear them. And every single one of them looked the same way that Sattler felt…terrified. And as he gazed out into space, gazed out upon a series of white dots that corresponded to twenty-five Covenant warships emerging from slipspace on a bearing towards them, his terror only increased.

"Oh my God…"

"Jesus Christ, it's them!"

"Gotta get outta here!"

"Bloody Eliza…"

"Where's the _Endeavour_? Damnit, get communication with-…"

"Please, not now…not like this…"

Sattler let the panic continue. Like the approaching fleet, there'd be no stopping it. Not with a pair of human warships that would likely be fated to lose if the Covenant attacked with equal numbers, let alone over twelve times said number. All that remained was to see if he could make a difference. Or, more accurately, if someone else could.

"Um, sir?" Marsden whispered as Sattler approached him, clearly as spooked as every other individual on the bridge. "I've got contact with Major Howard…"

"Good, because I've got a mission for him," Sattler grunted, taking the ensign's data pad. "Probably the last one I'll ever give…"

* * *

**AV-14 Attack VTOL "Hornet"**

**Destination: Unidentified alien relic**

"This is Sierra-030, calling Thunderville Actual, over."

"This is Thunderville Actual, over."

"Alien relic is within sight. Will proceed to deposit MFDD, over."

"Roger that, Sierra-030. Keep in mind that there's a strong chance that radio interference in and around the relic might prevent you from keeping in contact with home base, over."

"Roger that Thunderville. Sierra-030, out."

It was formal…more formal than Vinh would have thought possible given the situation facing Howard right now. With a Covenant force approaching the settlement, and word having trickled down of a Covenant fleet entering the system, some would argue that this was the perfect time to panic. And while Green 4 knew that anything was better than panicking, the calm seemed somewhat alien to her…no pun intended. Maybe it was from all the emotion she'd seen expressed recently, how after the exchange with Keancros, a Covenant invasion had somehow become anti-climatic.

_Or maybe it's because the climax has yet to come…_

Vinh knew she had to be prepared for eventualities. And right now, a very likely and not at all pleasant eventuality is that she'd find herself with a Banshee squadron on her tail. It was through luck more than anything else that she and Isaac had managed to slip through the Covenant's lines in a Hornet, to deliver the package to the relic as part of what Captain Sattler had called his "final order." The aliens had almost certainly seen them as they closed the gap in their lines, but had neglected to engage in pursuit…so far at least.

But then again, it hardly mattered. The ultimate eventuality was that every human in Chi Mu would be on the end of an energy projector, if not a less powerful tool. All she and Isaac could do was fulfill their orders to the best of their abilities.

"Nice place…" Green 5 murmured, breaking Vinh out of her thoughts.

"Pardon?"

"The relic…" her fellow Spartan murmured over the radio from his place on the craft's right skid, making a motion with his head towards the relic and its beam of white light (one arm was clutching the MFDD and the other the Hornet's rung). "Didn't realize how…big it was down on the ground. Then again, it didn't have the light show back then."

It was small talk, but Vinh welcomed it. She had been…was…worried about Isaac, about his increasing despondence and borderline irrationality. It was a moot point now, but even so, she was pleased to see that the situation hadn't flooded out any sense of self he might have. Even in the end of all things, he'd remain loyal to the mission.

"Take a good look at it Green Five," commented the petty officer, coming to notice that Isaac had a point. "Once you get in there and level it, there'll be nothing pretty to look at."

"Nothing but a…"

Vinh glanced at Isaac, static having continued his broken sentence. Still, as he gestured towards his mouth to the best of his ability, Green 4 understood. The radio interference had indeed extended beyond the relic, just as Howard had indicated earlier. The plan was for Vinh to remain airborne while Isaac snuck in and delivered the nuke. Not that long for the two to remain apart, but now it was guaranteed that there'd be no contact. Just as much as she couldn't radio Anton.

_Anton…_Vinh thought to herself, taking her eyes away from the relic and casting them out over Hope's barren, shadowed surface, the setting sun offering little in the way of illumination and the relic's white beam to the heavens providing roughly the same amount. _Are you out there?_

She didn't know. And while there was now an explanation for his radio silence since the MAC strike, that was still cold comfort. Was he alive? Or had he died an early death and escaped glassing?

Vinh shook it off. Like her, Anton was a Spartan-II. He'd understand that the mission came first. Even the last one that at best, offered a petty victory over the Covenant.

"Alright, I'm setting her down!" Green 4 yelled, hoping that Isaac might be able to hear her through the cockpit's glass and the hum of the Hornet's engines. "Quick smash, no grab."

If Isaac responded, Vinh didn't hear him. Then again, it mattered little. Her main focus was on landing the Hornet and studying the relic as she did so. A relic that unlike the MAC strike, showed no signs of a shield. In fact, if not for the constant, silent stream of white energy streaking up to the heavens, one would have assumed that it wasn't active.

_Is the shield still up? Or did it only react to the MAC? Something to do with its speed? Its yield?_

Vinh was tempted to find out, to fire a missile or two at the structure and witness the results. Still, she decided against it. She'd passed the rough threshold of the shield's radius when the MAC struck and even if the missiles hit, the Hornet didn't possess enough firepower to do any damage. Secondly, it might alert Kirk to their presence…if he wasn't aware already. Thirdly, they already had a medium fusion destructive device to do the job. And if Banshees did come to see the show, Vinh would rather reserve her firepower for them.

Still, as Isaac jumped off the right skid as she neared the ground, she wished she could do more to help. Indeed, what was to stop her? Hope was doomed, so why wait around for her…friend's extraction? Why not go in and help him?

"Shield's down," the petty officer heard Green 5 murmur, raising the cockpit's visor as he tossed a rock in through the entrance. "Guess that equates to the welcome mat being laid out in the culture of over-compensated architecture."

"Yeah…" Vinh said slowly, finding herself unable to laugh right now.

Isaac sighed, tucking the MFDD under one arm and drawing out his pistol with the other. He glanced back at his comrade, his visor making him all but unreadable.

"Thanks for the ride Vinh," Green 5 said softly. "It was fun."

And with that, he turned to enter the relic. And if not for Spartan-030's interruption, he would have done so then and there.

"Isaac, you don't have to go in alone," Vinh blurted out. "Even if I fly around, what good will I do? The Covenant will-…"

"Anton's still out there," grunted Isaac, stopping, but not turning his back. "See if you can find him. After that…well, return here I guess. I'll be waiting."

"Waiting…waiting for what?" Vinh blurted out. "The end of the world? To be incinerated? Isaac, you…you don't have to die alone."

"Everyone dies alone," Green 5 murmured, turning to face his fellow Spartan. "Still, at least out here, we can choose the manner of our departure."

Choice…hell, what choice did the Covenant offer, besides the technicalities of a plasma rifle, an energy sword or, if they felt Hope was worth the effort, incineration as the world's surface was turned to molten slag? Choice was often overrated in Vinh's mind, but right now, the lack of it was outright depressing.

_Even super soldiers have psychological limits…_

Vinh hadn't reached hers, as far as she knew. Whether Isaac had was another matter. And somehow, the answer of that question was still relevant to her.

"What about your retrieval?" Green 4 asked, knowing that the question was academic. "I go looking for Anton, but there's no guarantee I'll find him. What about-…"

"Don't worry about it," Isaac grunted, turning his back to the pilot and heading for the relic's gloom. It hardly matters."

Letting out a weary sigh as she lowered the Hornet's cockpit, Vinh found she agreed with him.

* * *

**Settlement 01 ("Thunderville")**

"Demon! Come out and face me!"

On the exterior, Petty Officer Second Class Joshua-029 was cool, calm and collected. On the interior, he was anything but. Problem was, the Elite was intent on tearing away his emotional cocoon-…

"Sir? I think the Elite wants you."

…and so were his brothers in arms.

"I got the picture," the Spartan-II murmured, not even bothering to glance at Mr. Obvious. His gaze was reserved for one thing and that was reserved for the golden armored, overshield-clad Elite standing on the slope north of Thunderville with an army at its back. An army that had prompted Thunderville's defenders to retreat from the perimeter and establish a skirmish line within the settlement. It would allow the invaders to gain ground, but the narrow streets of the settlement would prevent the Covenant from using their superior numbers to their full advantage.

_Or they could just use energy mortars and shell us to-…_

"Demon! Stop cowering and face your better!"

Scratch that. The Covenant wouldn't do such a thing. Not unless the Elite ran out of patience at least.

Sparing a glance at the marines gathered around him, fear and despair present in all their gazes, Joshua wished the rest of Green Team was with him. With Anton MIA, Grace's wounds regulating her to rear evacuation ops and Isaac and Vinh en route to the belly of the beast, he was the only active Spartan-II in Settlement 01. And while not highest in the chain of command, even on the field, he'd found himself having taken on the role of de facto leader. Certainly everyone looked to him when the Covenant force showed up, and everyone had followed his suggestion to retreat into the settlement's limits. And with word of a Covenant fleet having reached planetside, Joshua suspected that he was the only thing keeping the soldiers in position.

"Demon! This is your last chance!"

…_and the Covenant._

The M90 would do jack shit against an overshielded Elite, but Green Leader found comfort in nevertheless, feeling the weight of the weapon in his hands as he walked out to the front, within sight of the Elite field master. He didn't know how the Covenant were aware of his presence, but maybe it was a blessing in disguise. From what he understood, the Covenant saw Spartan-IIs as demons and while that generated a great deal of hatred, it also generated respect as well. As much respect as it did among his own troops apparently, as numerous squads followed him to the front, in turn prompting more aliens to come down and join their leader. It was a standoff, but only two would be conducting what amounted to negotiations.

"So…" the Elite sneered, flexing its mandibles as Joshua stepped out from the perimeter. "You've answered my challenge."

"Challenge?" the NCO sneered. "You can provide such a thing?"

"You are either unbowed by the inevitable, or cannot yet see it. Either way, looking upon my army should enlighten you."

It was astonishing really, how well the alien could speak English. Almost as astonishing as the fact that Joshua was actually playing along. Anything could break the banter, but the longer it went, the more people could get off this planet safely. Hope was lost, but with two starships in orbit, surely at least some could escape.

"So demon…" the Elite continued. "Shall we duel now? Or shall my forces sweep you away in a tide of-…"

"How about neither?" the Spartan-II interrupted. "Neither of them worked with the last group of alien misfits that attacked."

"Perhaps, but that was when you had a chance of victory," the Elite continued. "Your death is assured, demon, as is the death of every other human on this miserable little planet. You should be grateful that I'm offering you the chance to choose the manner of your departure."

"Departure...as in, leave the planet? I'd love that."

It was moronic, it was cliché, and it was excruciatingly tempting to fall into the "what the hell" trap and simply open fire on the zealot, to spill his blood and add some color to the increasingly colorless terrain as final night neared, shrouding the white beam on the horizon. Still, the NCO managed to keep his cool. Just keep the alien talking and save lives. And when the talking stop, fight like there was no tomorrow and save even more lives. That was the mission. Nothing else mattered.

"Departure…" the alien sneered. "You think the Fleet of Purity would allow that? Your demise was sealed the moment it entered the star system."

"Then we have nothing to lose then."

The alien fell silent, and Joshua realized his mistake. On one hand, he had to convey an impression of strength, to prevent the Covenant from realizing how thinly Thunderville's defenders were spread out. On the other, he had to be willing to 'negotiate.' But he'd made an ending statement. He'd repeated what the Elite already knew. And as it activated an energy sword, it appeared that the alien had come to the same conclusion. 'Negotiations' were over and all that was left was the maelstrom of combat.

"Um, sir?" a marine asked timidly. "Should we-…"

"Fix bayonets," Joshua grunted, pumping his shotgun. "And wait for the charge."

* * *

**UNSC **_**Haven**_

**Status: Preparing to engage with Covenant fleet**

"Sir! Slipspace ruptures detected at-…"

Sattler drowned it out. He'd heard enough. More Covenant vessels coming from slipspace to add to the twenty-five vessels bearing down on him. Vessels that the _Haven _would be facing alone while the _Wild Endeavour _waited for the few people that could be saved before departing. While its carrying capacity was much smaller, the frigate would be next to useless in a delaying action. _Phoenix_-class vessel however, stood a much better chance. As horrific as the odds were, Sattler knew that he might…just _might _be able to slow the Covenant down. It guaranteed a fiery demise, but hey, that had become a possibility for billions of humans in recent times. That it was about to happen seemed to be a moot point.

"Snickett…" the captain murmured, not taking his eye off the approaching vessels. "Any word from the _Aeros_?"

"No sir. Nothing."

Sattler nodded, absorbing the fact. He wasn't sure why he was asking, or why he even cared. Had Harwood resigned herself to the same fate he had? Or did they realize they were last on the pecking order? Either way, the captain didn't care. All he cared about was-…"

"Sir, I repeat, slipspace ruptures at-…"

"Fryirs, I heard you the first time!" the captain barked. "More Covie ships are entering the system and-…"

"Sir, I don't think they're Covenant."

"…what?"

It was strange, come to think of it, how silent the bridge had become. Sattler had given his stand and fight orders almost right after sending Howard's Spartans to nuke the relic and no-one had complained. It was surreal really, and as he walked over to the ensign, it was like…like wading across the River Styx. The land of the living was behind him, yet the realm of the dead was just as ambiguous…or something.

_Ulysses would have loved that…_

"Sir, I'm reading around fifty slipspace ruptures a few thousand klicks away. Formation is…well, there is no formation."

"What?" Marsden asked. "But, Covie vessels always emerge from slipspace in formation."

"Exactly…" Sattler murmured, getting a glimpse of the Elysian Fields rather than Tartarus. "Which means only one thing…"

Well, at least he hoped he did. But as Sattler glanced at the IFF readout, as the ruptures materialized, as he gazed upon the new tac-map display…for the first time in three years, hope became manifest. Manifest in fifty ships…and ten words…

"Hang onto your name Hope," came the voice of Admiral Hieronymus Michael Stanforth, commander of the UNSC _Leviathan_. "Because the cavalry just arrived."

* * *

**Unidentified alien relic (interior)**

This time, finding his way was easy.

He'd walked down the road before, the first time with caution and unease. This time, he walked it without hesitation, without fear, without caution. He was letting his guard down, but this time, there would be no need to raise it. Not yet at least.

The MFDD had an explosive range of a kilometer within a structure like this. Probably even less with this kind of architecture though. Still, that would have still allowed him to walk in a fair distance into its interior, set it, get out and signal Vinh for evac, even if he had to resort to something as archaic as a flare. Yet that wasn't what he intended. He knew that. Vinh probably knew that as well. Maybe like him, she'd bowed to the inevitability of the situation. Or maybe she just didn't care. Either way, it didn't matter.

It wasn't long before he reached the control room, before he reached the structure's heart with the intent of tearing it out of its body. Yet the artery stood in his way. Stood with his back to him actually, staring into the core. But he knew he was there. Isaac could tell. He and Kirk had shared much. Enough for Isaac to lay the MFDD at the entrance at walk slowly towards his former friend. Enough for him to not raise his weapon as SK-018 turned to face him. Enough to remain silent as his enemy spoke the first words of their last confrontation.

"I knew you would come…"

* * *

_A/N_

_Ladies, gentlemen and genders in-between, I give you the sound of hoofbeats. And behold as they're zebras rather than horses._

_Metaphors aside, I guess I should explain that in more literal terms, namely how anyone who's read _Shadow of the Xel'naga _will recognise the 'calling down the thunder' scene. It was something that plagued me for awhile, how I could generate a similar effect, but at least make it slightly different. Mainly taking a leaf from the Onyx Sentinels, I came up with the answer._

_And on another note, I guess it's worth mentioning that I originally planned for Admiral Cole to be used in place of Stanforth, considering that I generally prefer to use canon characters when possible. Still, _Evolutions _made the first choice a bit iffy, hence settling for Stanforth instead._

_Update (08/05/2011): Corrected grammar error._


	16. Endgame

.

**Halo: Shadows of Hope**

**Chapter 16: Endgame**

**Chi Mu System, ****unidentified alien relic (interior)**

**Planet Hope**

"So Isaac…did you miss me?"

"I did…up until around six hours ago."

"Ah, you wound me."

The banter was slightly different than their first encounter, but as far as Isaac-039 was concerned, Kirk wasn't fooling anyone. Not as Kirk-018, not as SK-018 and certainly not as the man who was only now turning to face him, his narrow red visor shining in the gloom of the relic's core. A relic that had survived a MAC round and was currently putting on a lightshow…even if there was nothing to indicate that inside.

"Well?" Kirk asked, folding his arms as he stared the Spartan-II down. "Anything to say Isaac? No 'oh Kirk, how did you survive the-…"

"Kirk, how is this place still standing?"

The Reaper snorted. "Interrupting my sentences…honestly, I would have thought you'd have more respect for me, after bringing you back here."

The NCO remained silent, resisting the urge to raise his weapon. Kirk had claimed that he'd brought him here…a claim that he didn't find so far-fetched. He'd had his suspicions earlier and it looked like SK-018 was about to confirm or deny them. And while such explanations weren't part of the Spartan's mission statement, he wanted to hear them. Even if there'd never be a debriefing.

"Perhaps you have pieced it together…" Kirk began, beginning to pace back and forth across the walkway that led to the chamber's core, his gaze always in sync with his direction. "Perhaps you wondered why I let one of the marines escape, or why I spared you and Grace. Perhaps you gathered that I _let _you people escape, to run back to your masters."

"But you didn't know that Grace or I would come…" Isaac murmured, not taking his eye off Kirk, even if his former friend refused to meet his gaze. "You couldn't have anticipated that…"

"No, I didn't. But letting you go served me well anyway. Not only had I defeated a squad of lapdogs, but now two super-soldiers as well. Couple that with the presence of the Covenant and I was certain that striking this installation from orbit would be the next step. To bring down the hammer…" Kirk stopped pacing, turning his gaze to Green 5. "Well the hammer was brought down Isaac, and it's made the anvil stronger. Well done."

The Spartan remained steadfast, turning his polarized gaze to SK-018's own. "I gathered you wanted us to leave for some reason…but why a MAC? Why try to damage this structure in the first place?"

"Damage it? Who said anything about _damaging_ this place?"

Technically, Isaac had. But it would seem redundant to point that out.

"It was a bit of a problem I faced…" Kirk began, resuming his pacing as he did so. "This place was old, and low on power. Not even the power it drew in initially was enough for it to fulfill its function. Not in the timeframe I needed before the place was stormed."

"Kirk, what are you talking ab-…"

"The light, Isaac. The white beam of light that was revealed along with this relic. The light that's streaming from the heavens as we speak. The-…"

"This relic's signal?" Isaac asked. "I know-…"

"Signal? You think it's a _signal_?"

Once again, Isaac was reduced to silence. Kirk had proven superior in action, and now he was proving superior in words. Right now, the only superiority the Spartan felt he possessed was raw firepower and even that was at the core's entrance. But who was to say Kirk would even let him head for it. Even if he was laughing like a mad hatter.

"Isaac, I don't know what black hole you were squatting in a few days ago, but surely you must have noticed how quickly you reached this world," the Reaper began. "Far quicker than a UNSC ship should be capable of."

"Yes…why?"

"Why? Isaac, it's because the beam is anything _but _a signal. The energy you see…the relic's not sending it outwards. It's pulling it _inwards_. It's pulling in slipstream energy to feed itself, like water going down the plughole of a bath. That's why you got here so quickly…you can't detect the extraction itself, your instruments aren't sensitive enough to measure such a refined process, but there's a whirlpool of slipspace energy around this world, just like the last stages of a tub being drained. Anything within range of the whirlpool is pulled towards it, travelling faster than usual."

"But the light…extended outwards."

"Only the connection into slipspace, beyond the planet's atmosphere. Since then, the stream has been feeding the relic. A stream that your MAC round was kind enough to re-activate."

Isaac remained silent, once again resisting the urge to reach for a firearm. Downing Kirk was on his to do list, but that could wait. Right now, he just wanted something to hold onto. He'd have to treat his former friend's words with caution, but in light of the…light, of the _Wild Endeavour_'s speed…it added up. All of it did. Well, all of it bar the claim that a MAC round was required. Still, as if reading the petty officer's mind, Kirk proceeded to explain.

"I'm sure you're asking why I needed a MAC strike," the former Spartan continued. "Technically, I didn't. But as mentioned, even with its first activation, the relic would still need time to convert the slipstream energy into a source of energy applicable to the four dimensions of our own realm. However, it turns out that this place has a do or die protocol…if under attack from a source of sufficient power, it will carry out an all or nothing action, drawing in enough energy for immediate results. The strain will render the place inoperable, but the amount of slipspace energy drawn in will let me achieve my goal within minutes rather than days."

"And the MAC round was the source of a perceived threat…" Isaac murmured. "You let us go…to call down the hammer. You tricked us into striking from above, so that the protocol would be activated."

"Yes, pretty much. Clever, huh?"

Isaac remained silent. Kirk had played Hope's defenders for fools. Thin the herd, invite vengeance and laugh as vengeance exploded in the UNSC's collective face. Well, not that the traitor was actually laughing, but the Spartan suspected that whatever lay behind that visor, a smirk was present. And for good reason. Kirk was about to accomplish his goals…whatever they were. And while the normal COA at this point was to prevent such goals from being realized, Isaac still wasn't entirely convinced. Something was missing from Kirk's explanation. Something that he'd suspected back in Thunderville.

"Nice plan you've got…" the Spartan began. "But you've still left out a few things."

"Hmm? What are you-…"

"Three Covenant forces were going to attack Thunderville originally…" Isaac said, beginning to pace around in a manner similar to Kirk. "You stopped two of them."

"Of course I did. I needed you at-…"

"You only needed one survivor from this relic…but you allowed three to exist."

"Isaac, as I said-…"

"You even let Harwood live. You killed Clarke, but spared her."

"Course I did. Letting that bitch drown in her own guilt would be as close to vindication as I could achieve."

"Maybe…" Isaac murmured, bringing his pacing to a close. "But maybe the truth is far more simple. Maybe after all that's happened, after all you've done…something's holding you back Kirk. Maybe deep down, past that armor, is a moral center. Just like the people you used to call friends. Maybe it's for that reason that you even hesitated long enough to let Grace save me…the reason you let us escape…"

Kirk sighed, though Isaac wasn't sure what that meant. Then again, he wasn't sure about anything right now. Not about his friend, nor why the core's control panel was lighting up. Glancing back at the console, SK-018 presumably noticed it as well. What that actually meant in practice however, was up for grabs. For now at least.

"Poor Isaac…" the Reaper began, walking back to the console. "Still deluded, still a puppet…still unable to see what lies before you."

"Which is _what_, exactly?"

"A gift from an alien species," Kirk answered, reaching the console and turning back to face Isaac, closing the distance between the two super-soldiers. G-zero-one…that's this place's name, Isaac. G as in _godbringer_…"

"God…what?" Green 5 spluttered.

"Zero-one…" Kirk continued. "The first…and only one of its kind. Left to rot…its creators could have had this place maintained, you know. But they sealed it…left it to crumble. But still capable of use. Or at least, use by one worthy to wield its power."

Something was different…and not just in regards to the console. Previously, Kirk had been casual, almost relaxed. But now, his voice, his words…he was like a man possessed. Hell, maybe he was.

"The power of the slipstream…" Kirk whispered, clenching his fist as he turned his back to the Spartan. "The sheathing of an individual in that energy…making them invincible. How could matter or energy pass through the armor of a pocket universe? At first, nothing could. But then…but then the creators lost their vision. The few, the proud, the chosen…at first they fought against their enemy. But then they fought amongst themselves. All that power…it was too much for even their minds. So after much loss, they were defeated, and this place sealed. Other methods would be used to fight the enemy…"

"Kirk, what are you-…"

"Isaac, this place is a gift, don't you see?" Kirk whispered. "It's…it's happening again. The power of a _god_, right at my fingertips. It's what the Covenant want, why they came to this world…it's what _I _want. It's what I _need_. I…I have vision. Even after years of stasis and agony, I haven't lost that, haven't been blinded by the fight for survival like humanity or whoever, or whatever came before. I…I can end the war Isaac. I can defeat the Covenant, I can show humanity the correct path. I…I can _liberate _us!"

"Just like the first users?" Isaac whispered in horror. "The ones who went mad with power? You're already a nutcase Kirk, but-…"

**I'm not mad!" **the Reaper yelled. **"I'm not like you Isaac! I have vision! I have freedom! I'm the one who took the initiative and activated this place! Within a few minutes, the war will be as good as won for our race! I can set us free, Isaac!"**

"No…you can't."

How Kirk knew this information, how he had gleaned it was a question that Isaac suspected would never be answered. All that mattered now was the fact. And the fact was that Kirk had…well, he'd become like the Covenant. Blinded by belief and willing to slaughter everyone who disagreed with it.

"Kirk…there's a reason that we're not meant to play god," Isaac whispered, remembering what Keancros had told him, how he should have known what the relic did in light of what had occurred in 2517. "It was done by this place's creators. It was done by NavSpecWar for us. The difference however, is that we were kept in line. We were kept loyal. You can resent Harwood and Halsey all you want Kirk, but remember they did what was necessary. There's a price of freedom Kirk. You want unlimited freedom. You want freedom even at the cost of everything else."

"I want freedom for _all _of us."

"No Kirk…that's not it. The real you, the one Keancros didn't twist would never sacrifice people's lives for personal gain. The real Kirk wouldn't put his faith in a piece of machinery that scared even its own creators. The real-…"

"Isaac, this is the real me," Kirk murmured. "You just can't see it."

And with that, he pressed the button.

It was a small motion, but the results were anything but. Rumbling filled the relic's core, the two super-soldiers fighting to say on their feet. Glancing down to the room's depths, Isaac could see why-seven pillars were extending from its depths, coming up to the same level as the walkway leading to the console. Up from the ceiling, a single pillar came down, its base shining with light…some kind of geometric pattern. It was a pattern that was brought down onto one of the pillars extending from below. A pattern that must have brought some kind of energy, given the steam extending from the small gap between the two.

"Seven conduits…" Kirk murmured, standing tall even as Isaac stared. "Seven pillars of foundation awaiting my mark. And when all bear it…the new age will begin. An age that I will lead."

"Over my dead body…" Isaac whispered.

Kirk chuckled. "Very well Isaac…I suppose all faith has to be validated by the spilling of heretics' blood."

Isaac remained silent. He knew that was true…for humanity, and certainly for the conglomeration of aliens that waged a holy war, slaughtering billions. A war that if Kirk succeeded, if he truly became what he thought was a god…could overshadow. By far.

This had to end. Now.

* * *

**Settlement 01 ("Thunderville")**

Outside his mind, there was chaos. Inside his mind, there was calm.

It was a paradox that Joshua suspected few would understand. Battle was a time of panic, of irrationality, of hatred and fear. Yet in battle, he was home. In battle, he could be himself. In battle, he could do what he was born to do-in this case, defend humanity from its enemies. Even if those enemies had already won, courtesy of a newly arrived fleet, he would keep fighting. There was nothing else he could do. And as his shotgun felled yet another Elite, he had no regrets about that either.

"Nice," came a voice. "Bet I could beat it though."

"I'll take that bet," Green Leader answered, shoving in some more soellkrafts into the weapon's firing chamber while scanning his surroundings for threats, his eyes unneeded in the process of reloading. "Not sure what the stakes will be."

"Oh, you know. Pride, dignity…the works."

The NCO grinned, and not because of the pool of blue blood he'd formed a few feet ahead, courtesy of a careless Grunt. Yes, the situation was helpless. Yes, he was going to die on this world. But at least with Grace at his back, he wouldn't die alone.

Nor would she.

Taking cover behind the burnt husk of a dwelling as a volley of plasma fire came his way, Joshua briefly reflected on Grace's entry to the battlefield. It had been unexpected, considering she was meant to be resting from her encounter with Kirk. He should have known better, but the Spartan-II had asked whether she was up to it. Considering that her answer was to break the neck of an Elite sneaking up on him, Green Team's leader supposed she was just fine. It was a supposition that had been validated numerous times. Gazing out from his cover as Grace threw a fragmentation grenade at the Elites, this was one of them. Robbed of their shielding, it took only a few seconds for her SMG to mow them down or send them scurrying for cover in turn.

"Wort wort wort!"

_Heh…guess I'll never know what that actually means._

Not actually a tragedy, but still, since something else than curiosity was going to kill him, Joshua couldn't help but feel some regret. He hoped it was an expression of terror, but it was all academic anyway. The purpose of his life was to stop Elites and any other Covie from ever speaking again. And as he threw his own grenade to where the split-jaws had taken cover, it was a purpose he fulfilled. Again.

"We're…gonna need more time to settle our bet," Grace wheezed, shoving a new clip into the SMG from her rapidly diminishing supply. "Can't…stand going out in a draw."

Joshua remained silent. Grace's stamina was clearly low and his own wasn't holding up so well either. So with no enemies in sight, he paused to regain his bearings, drowning out the gunfire, shouts and screams. His eyes were telling him what his ears were, that everywhere he looked, Hope's defenders and citizens were giving ground to the alien invaders. His plan of a skirmish line seemed to have worked, considering that Thunderville was still standing, but it meant that he had no idea how many humans were still alive on Hope. Heck, for all he knew, the swarm of marines and civilians running out in the open towards his position were the last ones left alive.

_Them…and me._

"Come on!" he heard Grace yell, Green 3 gesturing towards her position. "Move like you've got a purpose!"

Apparently Green Team's explosives expert was intent on following protocol. Right now, Joshua didn't see the point. None of the group needed any motivation and there weren't any threats in the nearby area either. Right now, in this particular location, there was a lull in the battle and Green Team's leader was considering looking elsewhere for-…

**Boom!**

At first, Joshua didn't know what had happened. With an explosion of light and heat having occurred mere feet away, his instinct was to get behind cover and was indeed what he did. However, this prevented him from seeing the cause of such heat and light. Still, as he glanced back out of cover, that wasn't such a bad thing.

"A plasma mortar…" Grace whispered, all thoughts of competition gone. "Never saw it coming…"

_Us or them? _the Spartan-II wondered bitterly, surveying the carnage. A pool of melted glass had formed in front of him, such was the heat of the plasma. Glass that no doubt encompassed more carbon than it would had it not vaporized every human within its radius. Only those on its perimeter had been spared such a fate, but seeing their burnt, broken bodies lying on the ground and even on rooftops, it was cold comfort.

_Do not pity the dead. Rather pity the living…_

The Spartan couldn't remember where he'd heard such a saying, but either way, he couldn't agree with it right now. He was living…living as he was meant to. But these poor souls…they hadn't asked for this. And now, choice was forever denied to them.

"Josh?" Grace asked hesitantly. "Your orders?"

Green Leader blinked. Orders? Did orders even serve a purpose anymore?

"My orders?" the NCO asked softly. "My…my…"

"Stanforth…read…repeat…"

_What the?_

"UN…_Leviathan_…evacuation…"

"You hearing this?" Grace asked.

Joshua nodded. He was hearing "this," as Spartan-093 put it. Hearing a radio transmission to be precise. A transmission that as faint and garbled as it was, could still be heard in the clamor of battle. A transmission that was coming from a marine's backpack radio.

"Grace, eyes on approaches," Spartan-029 murmured, signaling his comrade to cover him as he moved to the burnt body bearing the slightly less burned long-range radio. A radio that was still working and as he the NCO adjusted its frequency, began to make more sense.

"This is Admiral Stanforth of Battlegroup Leviathan. We are currently engaged with the Covenant above Hope and cannot hold out indefinitely. If there is anyone still alive planetside, please respond now."

_Stanforth? Name sounds familiar…_

If curiosity could still be indulged, the Spartan might have pursued it further. Still, right now, curiosity had to take a backseat. Because if this message was genuine (and there was no reason why it wouldn't be-the Covenant hardly had to spring a trap right now to win), then the game had changed. Death in battle was no longer guaranteed. Hope, as faint as it was, had returned to the world of the same name.

"This is Admiral Stanforth of-…"

"Um, Josh?" Grace asked. "You going to answer?"

The Spartan allowed himself a small smile. Grace couldn't see it, but that didn't matter. Actions spoke louder than words. And when combined together, the effect could drown out even the death and destruction the Covenant had brought down on them.

"Admiral Stanforth, this is Sierra-029. I am requesting evacuation craft at the following co-ordinates…"

* * *

_**Marathon**_**-class cruiser **_**Leviathan**_

**Status: Engaged with Covenant fleet in Chi Mu System**

There were some things that Hieronymus Michael Stanforth didn't know. Why Captain Sattler had sent out a distress signal so cryptically was one such thing. How Battlegroup Leviathan had made it to Chi Mu was another. But as puzzling as these questions were, they were taking a backseat to what the admiral did know right now. And that was that the battlegroup was engaged in a space battle with a Covenant fleet and that while it had the advantage for now, such an advantage was fated to be temporary.

"Sir! Carriers _Racetrack _and _Californium _report successful strikes on Covenant destroyer!"

"Frigate _Redemption _has taken heavy damage! Requesting permission to disengage!"

"Longsword Squadron Charlie engaged with Seraphs and _Banshee_-class interceptors! Three confirmed kills, no losses!"

Stanforth felt like a puppet master, one who was obliged to treat his fifty ships better than Stromboli had Pinocchio. All in all, he would have preferred not to be a puppet master at all. But if there was one thing that space battles against the Covenant dictated, it was coordination. And that was what he was going to provide.

"Group the _Racetrack _and _Californium _with the _Fantasia _for another concentrated strike!" Stanforth barked, turning his attention to the tac-map of his fleet. "Alert _Redemption _that it is clear for disengagement."

"Aye sir!"

"Yes sir!"

Stanforth remained silent. There was no need to answer acknowledgements. Not when, as the _Melody _disappeared in a storm of plasma, four-hundred plus souls would never be acknowledging anything again.

Some might call him a micro-manager, but just as Cole had demonstrated at the Second Battle of Harvest, concentrating firepower was sometimes the only way to take a Covenant ship down. It was a tactic that had so far worked quite well. From what he could tell, the admiral suspected that the Covenant fleet had only expected to be facing a _Phoenix_-class carrier and a frigate, not a human fleet twice its size. That would explain their slowness in reacting to the newly arrived UNSC ships, allowing Stanforth to group his scattered fleet together, single out Covenant ships and assign groups of his own ships to target them. The result was that it was only now that he was beginning to take losses, as plasma torpedoes and energy projectors met the storm of magnetic accelerator rounds and Archer missiles. Unfortunately, these were losses that would only get worse as time went on.

"Sir, UNSC _Notre Dame _is disabled. They're…they're dead in the water sir."

Case in point, the loss of a _Halcyon_-class cruiser rather than frigates or destroyers. Soon, _Marathon_s would begin to fall…

"Ensign Stitch!" the admiral barked, turning to his communications officer. "Has there been any word from the surface?"

"Negative sir," the young man answered, his trepidation evident. "Captain Sattler insists that they're still alive, but there's been no communication to back that up. Last we heard a Covenant force was overrunning their position."

Sattler sighed, closing his eyes and wiping the sweat off his brow. Even if Hope wasn't glassed, its people would be burnt either way. Maybe they were alive, maybe not. But as morally reprehensible as it sounded, the admiral couldn't stay up here on the basis of _maybe_. The _Wild Endeavour _had saved some people…but who was to say there was anyone left to save.

"Sir, UNSC _Atlantis _is…gone sir."

Stanforth remained silent. More lives lost…and no indication that they'd died for anything.

This had to end.

"Alright, I'm going to order disengagement," said the admiral despondently, turning to face his bridge crew while remaining like a hawk over Stitch, as if hoping for contact. "Order ships to-…"

"Sierra…nine…evacuation…"

_What the?_

"Sir, message from the surface!" Stitch exclaimed, his trepidation replaced with amazement in an instant. "Patching it through…"

"This is Sierra-029," came the voice again. "Thunderville is under attack, but still holding. If any UNSC ships are receiving this, please come down on this transmission. I repeat-…"

"Belay previous order!" Stanforth exclaimed, not needing the radio sender to repeat anything. Any Pelican, any Albatross, any Bumblebee for all I care…get them down to Hope and save its people by any or all means necessary!"

"Yes sir!"

"Roger wilco!"

"Sir, Covenant fleet in attack formation! Currently on approach vector, bearing at zero zero carom at point three-five!"

Good news on one hand, bad news on the other. Such was life. Well, no matter. Stanforth trusted his pilots to get down to the surface. Now he'd have to trust his own abilities and continue to co-ordinate his fire even as the Covenant ships approached to a range where their weaponry would be even more effective. It was up to him to ensure that as few aliens reached such a range as possible.

"Get a line with destroyers _Robinson_, _Thunderbolt _and _Enchantment_! Have them target-…"

* * *

**Unidentified alien relic (interior)**

It was like chasing an ant with a magnifying glass. The insect was doomed, but didn't have the intelligence to appreciate it.

Kirk knew…or rather hoped…that defeating his former friend wouldn't be as easy as the analogy that had sprung into his mind as soon as the Spartan had made it clear that he was past the point of no return. The relic only had enough power to grant near-invulnerability on one individual and given the 'all or nothing' protocol that had been enacted, no individual would ever follow in his footsteps. Still, that was not to say Isaac wouldn't have had his uses. Indeed, even if he didn't, the appreciation of setting the…child free would be also the thanks Kirk needed. But deep down, the Reaper knew that wasn't to be. Isaac was still a child, no different from the six year old that was brought to Reach all those years ago. Still following mummy and daddy, unable to see the world beyond the confined bubble of his existence. The only difference was that this child was capable of wielding all manner of weaponry. Including an MA5B…such as that was being raised to meet him.

_Pitiful._

The NCO was quick on the draw, far quicker than Kirk would have thought possible with an assault rifle stuck to his back via magnetism. But the Reaper was faster. Fast enough to dart forward with such speed that only a few rounds struck. Numerous 7.62 FMGs fell to the control room floor, as Isaac found Kirk with one hand on his rifle, another on his shoulder.

"What?" Isaac whispered. "How-…"

"What, you think the magnetic field was the only protection I had?" Kirk sneered. "Don't be so naive."

SK-018 was beginning to wonder whether Isaac would live long enough to see his moment of ascension. He hadn't given it too much thought up until now-the Spartan was doomed to failure, but he could still be a worthy opponent. But now, as he threw the child to the floor and tossed the rifle down into the abyss almost simultaneously, Kirk knew it was well within his rights to toy with him. Indeed, wasn't that what Isaac and every other one of his ilk were? A toy soldier? Just…waiting to be broken.

Bringing a fist down, Kirk decided to find out.

Isaac rolled aside, leaving the Reaper's blow to hit nothing but the walkway's surface, followed by the Spartan kicking him from the side. Nothing too special, but enough to allow the Spartan time to get back to his feet. Kirk dashed forward, letting lose a volley of punches that Isaac could barely block. In the case of a blow to his stomach, he didn't.

"You've gotten rusty," Kirk sneered, bringing both his elbows down onto Isaac's back. "But then again, CQC was never your strong suit."

"Nor…was…yours."

Snarling, Kirk didn't answer. He simply brought his foot up, striking the Spartan's chin and sending him back towards the entrance. Like kicking a puppy out the door after it did its dirty business inside. Certainly that was all Isaac was good for right now. Just lying there, in his own filth.

"You know, I'm not sure what you expect of me Isaac," Kirk began, walking over to his enemy. "You're useless without a weapon, so why keep fighting? Is it that you want to see me herald in a new age?"

Isaac didn't answer.

"**Well? Is it?"**

Still, the Spartan remained silent. Letting out a roar, kicking him again and again in the stomach, Kirk managed to alter that somehow. Grunts of pain weren't much, but at least he was getting some kind of response out of the drone.

"That (_thump_) you little (_thump_) was the wrong (_thump_) answer!"

"I…didn't…say anything…"

"Exactly!"

Giving Isaac a final kick, Kirk decided a new tactic was required. One that would put an end to the need of tactics altogether and put the miserable child out of his misery. Grabbing the Spartan by his neck, he proceeded to

**Thump!**

A blow to his stomach…a second blow to his abdomen…a third blow that was blocked, but still sent Kirk staggering…towards the exit.

"Establishing your turf, Isaac?" the Reaper asked. "Want to send be back out to-…"

Kirk trailed off as another fist came his way. It didn't hit and given the indentation made in the wall, that was just as well. Not wanting Isaac to press his advantage, he flipped backwards, both his feet hitting the Spartan and sending him flying back to the console.

"Face it Isaac, you've lost," Kirk murmured, walking over towards his friend. "Look around you. Two conduits have already been linked, there's only five more to go. Even if you _could _beat me in the long run, that's not enough time provided. But then again, we have to come back to reality."

"Reality…" said Isaac weakly, getting to his feet, but clearly the worse for wear. "Don't lecture me on reality Kirk. You lost your grip on it years ago."

"Really?" the Reaper sneered. "Then why can't you appreciate the fact that you've lost? Your main weapon's gone, you're on the ropes and they can only bend back so far until you fall out of the ring. And…well, it's a long drop."

The Spartan remained silent, though SK-018 saw, much to his satisfaction, that he nevertheless glanced into the control room's abyss. His future grave…or something. Usually they were dug after the person had died, but since Isaac was as good as dead already, Kirk supposed the analogy held.

"So Isaac…" the Reaper began. "What's it going to be? Go out with a bang or a whimper? Because either way your world…the old order…is going to end. What's your answer?"

The Spartan didn't answer…not in a literal sense. Because while his only answer was to reformat his stance into something that passed for CQC, Kirk understood what he meant behind it. He was going to go out in a whimper, but with the intention of going out in a bang.

"Excellent…" Kirk sneered, watching the third conduit come down to its pedestal. "Let's continue then, shall we?"

* * *

**Settlement 01 ("Thunderville")**

Ardo was dying.

Alone, insignificant, unremembered...exactly as he wanted to be pretty much since this whole mess began, especially after he was compelled to spill the beans on the relic that he and Tara had found. The relic that had shot a stream of light into the air and as far as he could tell, was still doing so. Darkness was falling on Hope and the stream of light to the north was one of the scant pieces of illumination left. That, and the plasma that was flying around left right and centre.

Or, in the case of the energy mortar, falling down on him.

Struggling to get to his feet, and then realizing that they'd disappeared along with the bottom halves of his legs, Ardo settled with leaning against the wreckage of a Warthog. There was no pain strangely, but as he was getting no feedback from any of his other senses, maybe that was to be expected. It was tempting to just lie down and...

_No...Tara..._

Had she survived the blast that he and the rest of his fellow kind had been caught up in? Ardo didn't know. He'd been cast aside, sent flying by the release of energy that had formed a sheet of blackened glass where it had landed. It was a sheet that Tara could be part of. But if she had survived...where was she...?

"Tara?" Ardo whispered, his throat feeling scorched somehow, as if a cold had come and done its work with a flamethrower. "You out there...sis...?"

No answer. Nothing but shouts, screams and gunfire of both human and non-human origin.

Coughing, Ardo reached for a cigarette...then stopped. Something wet was on the ground, something that compelled him to stretch his neck over and find out what it was. Not blood, actually, which made sense-his stumps were cauterized. No...it was hydrogen. Liquid hydrogen, used by Warthogs and practically all other forms of vehicular transport. Something had done a number of the vehicle and ruptured its fuel tank but had somehow not ignited it. Light a cancer stick however, and that could change.

_Crap. I'm going to die with blood in my lungs instead of nicotine._

Was it his fault, that this had happened? He and Tara unearthing the artefact, drawing the aliens here in force? As unpleasant as the answer was, Ardo supposed it was "yes." Certainly not with the intent of doing so, but intent seemed to matter little in this case. Intent was the finer point of law, not like the sledgehammer of alien justice. Or gravity hammer, whatever. Certainly not a glowing two pronged sword.

_What the...oh no..._

Elites.

Fighting just one of the bastards had been bad enough, but right now, the miner was confronted by five of them. What looked like their leader was wearing red armour instead of gold, but he still looked just as menacing. An ice hound rather than a doberman gator, but still perfectly capable of tearing his throat out just the same. Or impaling him. As the aliens approached, Ardo supposed he was about to find out.

"Hey...split-jaws...what can I...get for...ya?"

Did they understand? Well, if the aliens did, it was a mute point, given their guttural murmurings and what Ardo supposed was what amounted to a sneer when your mouth was composed of mandibles. Didn't these genocidal freaks have better things to do then raise their purplish weapons at him like a firing squad? Or were they so sure of victory that they were willing to send him off in style?

_Off in style...wait a minute..._

Ardo had an idea. An idea that was pretty much useless in the greater scheme of things, but satisfying was death. Tara was likely dead and if that was the case, her older brother was fated to follow. Unlike her however, he could choose the manner of his passing. Certainly the Elites let him reach for the lighter, staring at the flame with a perplexed expression, a disbelief that their prey thought he could do anything with it.

"Always knew these things would kill me..." Ardo murmured, gazing up at the aliens with the loathing he'd usually reserved for Riley as he held the lighter in one hand and twiddled with a cancer stick with the other. "Didn't know they'd kill you freaks as well..."

Clearly, the Elites didn't understand his words. Still, as Ardo dropped the lighter into the pool of hydrogen, that changed in an instant.

No-one would remember him. No-one would mourn him.

But as the first wave of Pelicans and Albatrosses touched down, not a single pilot missed his last hurrah.

* * *

**Settlement 01 ("Thunderville")**

**Evacuation zone**

_Bloody surveyors...if they called a planet Hope, why didn't they call one Despair?_

The answer to that question was that no-one would really want to name a planet "Despair" in the first place. Certainly not in a star system of five planets, where the terrestrials were as dull and lifeless as Luna (bar Hope) and its single gas giant was about as boring as Uranus and stank just as much given its methane content. Still, Jefferson indulged in such thoughts. Because while Hope was living up to its name right now, it was only doing that in part. The other part was reserved for its emotional opposite. And like the situation on the planet, the sergeant was tottering between the two.

As shouts of both joy and terror echoed throughout the night, the ODST suspected that everyone else was for that matter.

"Grunts! Coming hard!"

"Jackals! Elites!"

"Bravo Kilos! You want to Tango!"

Shaking his head, Jefferson ducked behind a burnt out Warthog, letting the blue and green streams of plasma remove even more of its paintwork. He didn't understand such terms and doubted he ever would...even if he did survive long enough to get off this rock. Which, as he reflected as he emerged from cover and downed a pair of gas suckers, was hardly certain. 50-50 he'd wager...just like the emotional see-saw that he and every other soldier and civilian was on.

_Hope despair doesn't have any fat kids..._

Ducking down from a Jackal whose ball of green went a bit too close to his head for his liking, Jefferson considered the situation. On the side of hope, in both planet and emotion, was the presence of around fifty UNSC warships in orbit, taking the fight to a Covenant fleet of smaller size. Not a guaranteed victory for the fleet's commander, or even the chance of a victory at all, but still enough time for the line to be held. For a landing zone to be set up at the 31st's command centre as Pelicans and Albatrosses touched down, squeezing in-between dwellings or sometimes flattening them completely. No-one protested at such actions, their main concern being to get the hell out of dodge. So for now, he and every other able bodied man, woman and...hell, even a few children was manning a drastically diminished perimeter and holding the Covies at bay while people filtered in through the lines to the waiting transports.

That, Jefferson thought as he managed to down the Jackal that took a shot at him earlier, was the side of hope encompassed in a nutshell.

"Nice shooting!" someone called out. "Next tree turkey is mine though."

"You're welcome to it!" the ODST responded, deciding that pandering to the lowest common denominator might be good for morale. "Just as long as I don't have to cook it for Christmas."

"Christmas was six days ago!"

"Hell, New Year's Eve then!"

Hope...so fleeting, so juvenile. But against the tides of despair, it was needed. Because there seemed to be no limit to the Covenant ground forces and there was still the issue of the space battle. How long could the naval forces last? When would they call it quits? And how many people would still be on Hope when that call was made?

_Me certainly...no teleports this time..._

Downing a Grunt that was fleeing with its arms waving like a child on a sugar high, Jefferson pushed the thoughts out of his mind. This wasn't Sanctuary. Things were different. A _lot _different. Different that there were far more ways to die.

"Wort wort wort!"

_Uh-oh..._

Even with the firepower of the marines and civilians, even with the command centre's turrets online (a firebase, effectively), it was inevitable that some Covies would make it through the killzone. It was also inevitable that given their strength, stamina and bloody energy shields, Elites would be foremost among such fanatics. And as Jefferson realized, it was also inevitable that he'd be on the receiving end of one of the split-jaw's left hooks as the eight foot tall monster jumped on top of the Warthog, knocking him aside with the force of a Cyclops.

Falling down, Jefferson reached for his rifle, fully aware that saying his name was nobody wasn't going to cut it. However, weapons hadn't availed the Greeks overmuch in that story and they didn't do him much good here. The Elite grabbed the rifle and tossed it over its shoulder. In turn, it raised its own...

"Hey split lip! Pick on someone as ugly as you next time!"

Jefferson watched as the alien's shields flared in the evening gloom, absorbing numerous rounds from an unknown source. Ineffective for the most part, but the alien nonetheless glanced at whatever the source was. The ODST however, didn't make the same mistake. Seizing upon the alien's distraction, he planted a grenade at its feet and dived aside, the sergeant took solace in the knowledge that the only thing the monster would be looking at now was its own tombstone.

"Hey pal, you okay?"

The voice...even in the midst of battle, with hundreds of other voices flowing through the air, it sounded familiar. As he got to his feet and found the source of the voice, Jefferson realized why.

"Private Hawkins..." the ODST murmured. "Didn't think you'd be the one to save my arse."

"Huh?" the kid asked, visibly confused. "Do I know you?"

"How many other ODSTs are on this rock?" the sergeant asked, un-polarizing his visor. "And don't answer Hawkins, I know that some are coming down on the birds from above."

It was cute, really, how Hawkins and his apparent significant other were still together, still fighting alongside each other in the gates of hell. It was even cuter to watch their expressions turn from ones of camaraderie to ones resembling a mix of confusion and dislike.

"Yeah, it's me, the cock blocker," Jefferson sneered. "Nice to see you too playboy."

"Whatever," Hawkins murmured. "I don't care what you think, _sir_, we just need everyone we can get our hands on right now."

"Yeah, I know how much you like a _hands on _approach."

Jefferson wasn't sure why he was being so snide when his life had just been saved. Maybe it was because he was sick of the whole charade of actually being a Helljumper. Maybe it was the privilege of rank. Maybe it was because Hawkins and Chambers reminded him of...no, scratch that. He didn't start striding towards his enemies with the glare that the private did. Nor did he have anyone to hold him back.

"Jack, don't," the medic said, leading him away to another section of the line. "Let him do his job, we'll do-..."

**Bam!**

It happened fast, yet not fast enough for Jefferson not to see what happened. One moment, Chambers was talking to her...comrade. The next, she was falling to the ground. What Jefferson had seen transpire between those two moments, was a ball of green plasma strike her in the back.

_Son of a...!_

Grabbing a battle rifle from some poor sod missing half his face, Jefferson opened fire on the methane suckers responsible. Only Grunts were stupid enough to stand there after a lucky shot. Only Grunts were stupid enough to run out in the open as he and Hawkins mowed them down. Only Grunts could die and not give you any satisfaction whatsoever...even when one of your own wasn't lying on the ground with her face in the same direction as the arthropods.

"Rachel? **Rachel!"**

The ODST moved over to where Hawkins and Chambers (or Rachel apparently) was. The marine was shouting frantically, having even taken off his helmet for some reason. It was tempting to follow suit, but the NCO resisted. He preferred anonymity, even if treating the medic might break it.

"Move aside kid," the ODST grunted. "You may be Romeo, but he was no medic."

"Romeo? What are...what are you doing?"

"Getting the armour off Juliet for your...well, not monologues, I can tell you that!" Jefferson snapped, peeling off the medic's burnt, brown armour and tossing it aside. "Armour absorbed most of the plasma, but that shot was highly charged. Having an oven around you isn't a good idea."

Hawkins remained silent as Jefferson checked the medic's pulse. He even remained silent as the sergeant rolled her shirt back, revealing the burnt, blistered skin below. She was still breathing, and there was no sign of penetration through her epidermis, but still, she was hardly going to be on her feet in the near future. There was only one thing for it. And as the ODST expected, the private didn't like it.

"What? Up with you? Are you-..."

"Kid, the ships are taking wounded along with civvies," Jefferson snapped. "Chambers counts as wounded, so she's going up as well. Because she's wounded, she needs someone to get her there. And since your knowledge of first aid is Medieval, you're not the person for the job."

"But I-..."

Jefferson shoved him down, and not only because of the Banshee wreck falling down beside them.

"I'm not running," the ODST declared, surprised to be speaking the truth. "I'm simply getting...well..."

"And why not me?" Hawkins whispered, his gaze darting between the medic and ODST. "Why not-..."

"Because you can hold this line better than me."

"How do you know?"

"Because it's something you signed up to do. I didn't."

There...that shut him up. Shut him up long enough for Jefferson to pick up Chambers in his arms and walk towards a waiting Pelican, hearing the sounds of Grunts dying as an MA5B tore through them. Sometimes, telling the truth was for the best.

And if anyone on the _Aeros _thought differently, David Jefferson supposed the space battle made that a moot point.

* * *

**Intercepted transmission between **_**Haven **_**and **_**Aeros**_

**Transmitted to Keancros via ghost software (excerpt)**

_J.S.: Stanforth's informed me that his fleet is reaching breaking point. How's things on your end?_

_M.H.: My end? You're checking up on me?_

_J.S.: The _Wild Endeavou_r's down and the _Haven _may be joining it soon. If we go down...nothing can protect the _Aeros_._

_M.H.: Bit late for that. Banshees and Seraphs have already had their fun with us. Apart from us on the bridge...I don't think anyone's still alive on this rustbucket._

_J.S.: Am I meant to feel sorry for you?_

_M.H.: No, but you are. I can see that just by looking at you. And from the alarms blaring that the _Haven _isn't going to be going much further either._

_J.S.: ..._

_M.H.: Why'd you stay Justin? If you'd made a break for Stanforth's fleet, you wouldn't have been isolated out here. There's only so many corvettes and destroyers the Covenant are willing to throw away before they send proper ships at you._

_J.S.: Don't lecture me on tactics Mina._

_M.H.: Mina? So we're both on a first name basis now?_

_J.S.: ..._

_M.H.: Look, it isn't so bad. The_ Aeros _can still play a role. Its fusion reactors-..._

_J.S_.: _Fusion reactors! Mina, what are you-..._

_M.H.: ...are encased with lithium tietride. Something about maximum output in regards to containment of energy. But if that energy was used in another way..._

_J.S.: This isn't the time to talk about suicide!_

_M.H.: It's the perfect time! The _Aeros _is dead, the _Haven _is dead, everyone onboard these ships is dead! If we can buy Stanforth and Hope more time, then that's a sacrifice worth making. I...know all about making sacrifices._

_J.S.: But you need the _Haven _to buy you time._

_M.H.: Knight in shining armour thing, pretty much._

_J.S.: You're no Guinevere Harwood._

_M.H.: Maybe not. But you're Lancelot Justin. _

_External: Nice foreplay sir..._

_J.S.: Shut up!_

_M.H.: (Snigger overheard)_

_J.S.: Fine. I'll go out with you in a last hurrah. Oh, and Mina?_

_M.H.: Back to forenames I see._

_J.S.: About the last three years? About the lies, the deception, about the Reaper, about Keancros?_

_M.H.: ...yes?_

_J.S.: ...I forgive you._

* * *

**Unidentified alien relic (interior)**

Isaac didn't like CQC.

Not because it was overkill against Grunts and Jackals. Not because it was inadvisable against Elites or Hunters. No...the reason that Petty Officer Second Class Isaac-039 didn't like CQC was that it was the last recourse available to him against Kirk. And SK-018 was far better at it than he was.

"Come on! Fight me!"

And he knew it.

Things were going slightly better now admittedly. Even as Kirk let out a volley of punches, Isaac was able to block them all, even while giving ground back towards the control room's console. Kirk suddenly stopped, bringing his leg around for a kick...which Isaac grabbed...only for Kirk to bring his other leg up, kick the Spartan under the chin and flip back to his feet.

"Pitiful. I-..."

Tackling his former friend the ground, Isaac shut him up. Bringing his fist upwards and then downwards onto the Reaper's helmet, the NCO hoped to shut him up permanently.

_Thump...thump...crack..._

Three strikes. Three strikes was all it took to make a dent in Kirk's helmet. One strike from Kirk was enough to send the Spartan rolling off. But the three strikes had done far more damage...enough to make the madman take his helmet off and throw it away in frustration.

"That..." Kirk said slowly, spitting out blood in-between gasps. "Was unpleasant."

"As unpleasant as your botched face job?"

"...you have no idea."

The ceramic ossification correction had done its job well. Well enough to send Kirk over the edge and well enough to ensure he was still in peak condition. Letting loose another volley of punches that Isaac couldn't block, he showed it.

"This...is...my...domain! You will kneel!"

"Fine."

Isaac did so, dodging Kirk's left hook. He then brought up his right one, landing a blow on the Reaper's jaw.

"What's the point of this!" the Spartan yelled, grabbing Kirk in a headlock. "Even if you get the energy, how will you get off this planet? What's the point?"

"Simple," the Reaper sneered, elbowing the Spartan in the chest, back-kicking him in the same area and cart-wheeling away, getting a strike on his visor. "The Covenant will investigate the relic, and I'll be waiting for them. I'll leave the planet. I'll...well, then I'll decide on how to tear down two civilizations."

"Tear them down? You're-..."

"A god? Not yet."

"No. A little baby on a beach who makes sandcastles before treading on them. Remember Emerald Cove? You're still a child Kirk! You think the world's your oyster and-..."

"**Shut up!"**

Kirk charged...and missed. At the last second, Isaac ducked and weaved, a tactic best suited for a Katana. Not that he had such a weapon, but he still made contact. Kirk now had his back to the console and for once, the Spartan had the upper hand.

"This ends now Kirk," the NCO said firmly. "You're finished."

"Hardly Isaac. Look around you. This isn't Moriah. Abraham isn't going to save you."

The Spartan didn't know what his foe was talking about, but looked around just the same. Looked around and saw that only two of the seven conduits had yet to be connected. Kirk might have his back to the wall, but-...

"Idiot!"

...scratch that.

One second. One moment of distraction was all it took for Kirk to regain the advantage. An advantage that had him, the madman on the walkway while Isaac was sent flying off it as part of his charge. In an instant, Kirk-018 wasn't his enemy. Gravity was.

"I'd tell you to drop in...but...oh wait, I don't need puns! I'm-..."

Isaac drowned it out, focussing on his own survival. Twisting his body in mid-air, he reached a more favourable position, akin to one he'd use in a HALO jump. Difference was, he stretched out his arm. Not to lower his freefall velocity, but to grab onto the last conduit. And pull himself up.

"Like a drowning rat clinging to a piece of wood," Kirk sneered. "Well, no matter. I'll break both the wood and the rat."

Jumping up through the air to the platform, he proceeded to do so. And failed. Because in the instant it took for the Reaper to make the leap, it only took half an instant for Isaac to counter it. With both hands on the conduit's edge, he was able to flip himself up to his feet. The result was that Kirk was hit in mid-air and sent flying in turn...

"Nice try Isaac!"

...and land on the next conduit.

Isaac couldn't believe it. He was sore, he was aching and Kirk...not only was he apparently still in fighting shape, but he seemed even madder than he did before. His eyes white, his teeth like that of a doberman gator after tearing into its prey. He'd lost it.

"You're dead Isaac!" the Spartan's enemy yelled. "You've lost! I've won! I am invincible! I am the light of moon and day! I-..."

**Crash!**

"Kirk!"

It was involuntary. Both the exclamation, and the stretching out of his arm as if to save his friend. But it was too late. Kirk's mind had gone beyond saving long ago. And as the pillar had come down to the conduit Kirk was on, crushing his form, his body was beyond saving as well. Struck down by the very thing that was to make him invincible.

"You shalt have no other gods before me," Isaac whispered, not sure what he even meant by such words. "You shalt not make for yourself an idol..."

"And you...believe that?"

"After all you've done? Seems there's some wisdom."

Isaac felt...nothing. Not from Kirk's words, not from his gaze, not from him coughing up blood as the pillar pressed down on his armour. Electricity sparked from the apparatus, but it was all that was saving him. For now at least. There was no way over to the conduit and even if there was, Isaac doubted even his strength could move Kirk from the death trap he'd created for himself.

"I can't save you Kirk," the Spartan whispered, sitting down on his own conduit, safe in the knowledge that Kirk had stalled the entire system. "I don't know if I even want to."

"Then that's your problem."

The Spartan fell silent. Kirk, defiant to the end. Once, in what felt like an old life, it was endearing. Now...now...now he didn't know what to think.

"Kirk...why do this?" the NCO whispered, feeling the rage build up inside him like a volcano ready to blow its top. "Why turn against...against everything? Why change? Why would you think even for a moment that activating this relic would help humanity? Why...why did you stop being the person you once were?"

Kirk sniggered, even as the pillar moved down on him further. He glanced at Isaac, the light leaving his eyes.

"What you know, you know, Isaac."

What he knew...right now, Isaac didn't feel like he knew anything. Not who he was, not what he was, why he fought every single day to save a species that seemed to be doomed to extinction anyway. Why he got up every day and never for a second considered a different path. Not the one Kirk had taken but...well, what path? The one that puppet masters like Keancros set out for him? Was he like Kirk? A tool? A means to an end?

"I've got one last thing to say to you..." Kirk rasped, gritting his teeth as the pillar pressed down further. "You don't have to listen...you don't have...to believe me...but it's the only way."

"What way?"

"Isaac...I know what's...troubling you..." Kirk rasped. "And I'll tell you this. If you don't...believe...in yourself...in what you fight for...then you're indeed a tool. A weapon. A means to an end. But you're not. We're not. No-one...is..."

"What I believe in?" the Spartan whispered. "Believe like you did? Believe that your-..."

"I did what I believed was right. I believe in myself. Can you say the same?"

Isaac fell silent. Not so much from the words, but from the man behind them. Somehow, at the end of all things...Kirk had returned. Somewhere in that crushed form was the person he once knew. The person who knew when his friend was troubled...and would console him...

It was in this moment that Isaac knew what his friend wanted also. His voice, his gasps, the look of...pleading in his eyes...yes, the Spartan knew what he wanted.

Isaac un-holstered his pistol.

_Hey, I'm Kirk. What's your name._

Reach...seventeen years ago. Funny how the mind worked.

_Isaac. And...wait, who are you?_

The safety was released.

_René...the girl who rang the bell for our team._

The bullet reached the firing chamber.

_Team? I don't want a girl on our team._

Isaac hesitated.

_Come on Kirk, she's got a point._

...

_Fine. I can be...friends...with a girl._

"Do it...please..."

_Friends? Who said anything about friends?_

"Please..."

_What's wrong Isaac? You don't like making new friends?_

"Kirk..."

_I...nah, nothing's wrong. I can be friends with you guys._

"Isaac...do it..."

_Best friends?_

"Please..."

_Yeah...best friends._

"**Do it!"**

_Now..._

The trigger was pulled.

_And forever._

It was done.

Isaac just stood there. The gun in his hands, his...friend's limp body just lying there...being crushed by the pillar. He was alone. Again. Maybe he'd always been alone. Alone ever since that day nine years ago. In a way, Kirk had never come back at all. In a way, both Kirk and René-005 had truly died the moment they were put into the neutral-buoyancy gel tanks. Yet in another way, he had also lost them again.

Last time, he had managed not to shed any tears. This time, even as he jumped back to the control room's walkway, he failed. Failed even as he used his radio, not knowing nor caring if anyone would hear his transmission. Certainly Kirk and René wouldn't. Even if it concerned them.

"...it's finished."

* * *

_A/N_

_In pre-emptiveness, I'll go ahead and say that this story was concieved long before _Cryptum_, let alone actually written. And while I did change some of the wording in this chapter to account for it, that still left me in an iffy situation as a whole for this fic in root concept. While not a "OMG, my fiction is ruined!" moment, there is the issue that the events of the Forerunner's struggle against the Flood, mainly from depictions in _Iris _and _Origins_, are either very different from what we were led to believe at best, or at worst, outright retconned. For most of the saga we've been led to believe that the Forerunners tried everything and anything before the resorting, the next, we learn that it was a case of the array or shield worlds in the midst of a political game and only entered 'epic struggle mode' when Mendicant Bias turned traitor. So how, in the midst of all this, did Forerunners build the thing I depicted here? Don't know, don't...meh. I'll spare you a rant. Anyway, criticism is welcome, though in the case of this branch of canon, I'd ask that any criticism of it is with the timing of conception in mind._

_Update (08/05/2011): Corrected spelling and grammar errors._


	17. Exodus

.

**Halo: Shadows of Hope**

**Chapter 17: Exodus**

**Chi Mu System, ****unidentified alien relic (exterior)**

**Planet Hope**

"_I know what's...troubling you. And I'll tell you this. If you don't...believe...in yourself...in what you fight for...then you're indeed a tool. A weapon. A means to an end. But you're not. We're not. No-one...is... I did what I believed was right. I believe in myself. Can you say the same?"_

Fine words, and not just because they were Kirk's last ones bar the pleading for his life to be ended. Words that meant nothing in the greater scheme of things as far as Isaac-039 was concerned. Keancros, the Covenant...what good were mere words in light of such power and deceit? He'd defeated SK-018, set the MFDD, and was no free to spend his last hours as he wanted to before the Covenant descended en masse and vaporized every homo sapien on this planet. Which basically meant he'd spend his last few hours making that task as difficult as possible for them.

Few people could choose the manner of their departure. Since he wouldn't have chosen any differently from what fate had provided, Isaac counted himself as lucky...almost.

Gazing up at the night sky, staring at constellations that made no sense to him this far from Reach, Isaac subconsciously dealt with the hiccup in his plan. All he had was a single pistol, and only so much ammunition for it. Added to which was the fact that the MFDD was set to detonate in thirty minutes. Not an issue in itself. Indeed, he wondered why he set it so high bar a nihilistic desire to slay as many aliens personally rather than let the power of the atom do it for him. Still, it was something to keep in mind...

_Whoosh!_

As were the pair of Banshees flying around. A pair of Banshees that let out a barrage of fuel rods at his position.

The Spartan didn't think. He just acted. Diving aside as a faint green glow briefly illuminated the ground outside the relic, it was action that paid off...for the short term. Rising to his feet as the flyers flew around for another pass, he wondered why he even bothered. He was totally exposed out here and there was no way a mere M6D was going to be able to down a pair of Covenant flyers. Retreating into the relic was an option, but that was just delaying the inevitable.

_So what's there left to do but face it?_

Would Kirk agree with such despondence? Well, that was irrelevant either way, as the petty officer reminded himself. He didn't care what that traitor thought, or what remained of his sense of self preservation was telling him. Right now, as he waited for the Banshees to make their next and final pass, he didn't care about anything.

The Banshees screamed...then one of them roared.

One second, a pair of type-26 ground support aircraft were closing in on a lone Spartan. The next, one of those vehicles had been reduced to a burning heap and the other was being peppered by gunfire. Looking up into the gloom and seeing the silhouette of a familiar vehicle, Isaac understood why.

"You took your time in there," came the voice of Vinh, ringing clear even as the second Banshee went down in flames from the firepower of her Hornet. "I was beginning to worry."

Isaac remained silent. Green 4 had saved him, but only delayed the inevitable. Right now, he wasn't sure if he even wanted to be saved. Hope would fall. It was only a matter of time before both the planet and emotion were snuffed out of existence. Heck, as far as the petty officer was concerned, the emotion already had been.

Maybe his fellow Spartan could sense that. Maybe that was why she landed the Hornet instead of communicating over the radio. Certainly such a thing was possible, the stream of energy with the relic having ceased.

"You came back quickly..." Isaac murmured, watching as Vinh stepped out of the AV-14. "I thought you were looking for Anton."

"I was, but..." Vinh looked as uneasy as someone wearing a tonne of power armour with a reflective visor could. "I couldn't find him and...Isaac, are you alright?"

"It's done. The bastard's dead."

"That's not the answer to my question."

"That's your problem. Not mine."

"We're squad members Isaac. Of course it's my problem."

Green 5 snorted, pushing aside his fellow NCO to rest his head against the glass of the craft's cockpit. He half expected Vinh to press the issue, but maybe she could see what he saw. The mission was over. They were as good as dead. All that was left to-...

"Anyway...we should get back to Thunderville."

Scratch that. They weren't seeing the same thing at all.

"Thunderville..." Isaac murmured, still staring through the cockpit's glass, its control panel providing the only source of illumination. "Is that place still standing?"

"Last I heard, yes," his fellow NCO murmured, walking around to the other side of the Hornet. "Either way, it's the only way we're getting off this rock."

Isaac snorted. Clearly Kirk wasn't the only crazy super soldier in this star system.

"Off this rock?" the Spartan murmured. "You think the _Haven _or _Wild Endeavour _are going to survive against a whole Covenant fleet? You think that-..."

Vinh slammed her fist against the VTOL. In an instant, some poor sod of an engineer had his work cut out for him. In another instant, Isaac was brought to attention.

"Isaac, it doesn't matter what I think. What does matter, is that I've been in touch with the garrison ever since the relic shut down and the radio interference ceased. There's a UNSC fleet up there in orbit and it's going to get every one of us off this planet or die trying. The least we can do is make the job easier for them."

It was a mystery, there and then, why Vinh wasn't in charge of Green Team. Maybe it was because she shoved a SMG into her comrade's arms, her way of telling him "you're flying on my wing, so shut up." Certainly actions spoke louder than words. Or, as Isaac reflected, the lack of them in his case.

"So I need your head in the game," Vinh continued, opening the Hornet's cockpit. "Because those Banshees came from the main force attacking Thunderville and from what I heard, it has many more of those screamers to spare."

"...wouldn't have it any other way."

Vinh raised a pair of fingers to her visor. Nodding, Isaac boarded the AV-14's right skid.

Maybe they would make it out of here alive after all.

* * *

**Settlement 01 ("Thunderville")**

**Evacuation zone**

The barricade consisted of everything but the kitchen sink...as far as she could tell. And if there _was _a kitchen sink somewhere in the pile of debris, Grace supposed she wouldn't be that surprised. Right now, in the midst of everything that had occurred over the past few days, the Spartan supposed nothing would surprise her.

Which was good. Being surprised was the penultimate step to being defeated in many battles.

There was only the sound of gunfire as Green 3 rested her M7/caseless submachine gun on the barricade, the force of pressing down against the metal offsetting its recoil. That, and the cover such intimacy with the barricade provided. The Covenant had reached the final line of defence, the last ring to the transports evacuating Hope's residents and defenders. Cooped up in such narrow quarters, it was effectively a fifty metre wide killzone, Grunts, Jackals and even Elites scrambling for cover, bereft of direct support from Wraiths or Ghosts in such narrow spaces. They still had the advantage of numbers and firepower, but in the belly of the beast, found it harder to bear.

"Get some! Come and get some!"

Apparently the remaining marines realized that too.

"Papa-1 is away," the Spartan heard Joshua murmur over the radio, an Albatross taking off into the night sky in accordance. "Keep them covered people."

Steadying her aim and downing a Grunt trying to flee the battlefield, Grace silently thanked any higher power that might exist that Green Team's leader was still in the fight. She hadn't seen him do that much fighting over the last ten to fifteen minutes, but all in all, the situation had gone beyond that. Striding up and down the line, providing the moral support that only the UNSC's finest could provide...she wasn't in need of it herself, but the same couldn't be said for every man, woman and child still on this world. If the Covenant was a maw closing in on Hope's defenders, Joshua was the bone keeping it from closing.

"Sierra-093, come in, over."

And, the explosives expert reflected, so was Major Howard. At least in the tactical sense.

"This is Sierra-093, acknowledging hail, over," Grace answered, ducking down beside the barricade and hoping that the Covenant forces were still reluctant to "wort wort wort," as their field commanders put it.

"This is Major Howard. Papa-1 is away, all that's left are the remaining Pelicans. You and the rest of your men are to fall back to the evacuation zone. The remaining birds will pick you up."

"...negative, sir."

"Come again ninety-three?"

"I can't do that sir," Grace murmured, feeling sick to the core to argue with a superior officer. "The rest of Green Team...they're still out there. We have to wait for them. We don't know if-..."

"Sierra-030 has informed me of their mission success. But we can't wait for them."

"We're just leaving them?"

"A necessary sacrifice petty officer. You should understand that."

Grace did understand. She'd understood since the age of fourteen, after the augmentation mission. There was also the fact that if anything, Howard understood even more than her. He'd been making sacrifices ever since the Covenant arrived in this star system. But to pull out now, to sacrifice three lives for less time on the frontline? Pain spread through Grace, similar but different to the one that still lingered in her fractured arm. This...wasn't right.

"Sir, I have to respectfully request that...that..."

Grace trailed off. Not from lack of conviction, not from seeing a marine a few feet away disappear in a cloud of green mist, but from what was up above. Plasma mortars, sailing through the night sky, eclipsing the light of the stars above. Plasma mortars that had been fired simultaneously, and given their cohesion, must have been directed to a single target. A target that as Grace followed their trajectory, was the most important one on this battlefield.

The command centre.

Had the Covenant targeted it for its anti-air capabilities, or did they appreciate that a great deal of human fighting force relied on coordination? Maybe someday, ONI could have the answer to that. But if such answers were ever reached, Major Howard, and everyone still in the structure, would never hear them. Not unless they could survive being reduced to a molten wreck as the structure was saturated in plasma.

"Christ...the command centre!"

"The major...he was in there..."

"Mike foxtrots! Get some!"

Grace turned away. There was nothing left to see. Sight was overrated in this gloom anyway. Hearing, as the crackle over her radio indicated, was much more important.

"Grace? Are you there?"

"...acknowledged, Green Leader."

"Grace, Howard's gone. I'm taking command and-..."

"He wanted us to pull back."

"...say again, over."

The Spartan sighed, turning away as the soldier next to her hit the gray soil, a needle rifle having reduced his face to a bloody pulp. Howard was dead, but his last order had to be conveyed. Even if Joshua didn't agree with it. He was critical to morale, but they were still NCOs. The chain of command had to be respected, if not agreed with.

"Howard ordered us to pull back to the landing zone. Board the remaining Pelicans."

"And the rest of Green Team? Are we going to leave them?"

"That's your call squad leader."

It took a long time for the Spartan to answer, which suited Grace just fine. More time to fight her own war. More time to mow down every split-lip, gas sucker and turkey bird she could. First with her SMG and after the last clip was ejected, a scavenged M392 DMR. Single shots, and a kill with each one. Satisfaction however, was more fleeting. Only seeing her friends return alive would give the petty officer any joy right now. But would Joshua allow it?

"...withdraw, Green Three."

Grace closed her eyes. It was the right call...but not the one she was hoping for.

"Acknowledge, Green Three."

"...acknowledged, squad leader."

"Lead your fire teams to the landing zone, fall back in cohesion. I'll meet you at the blood tray."

"Roger wilco. Green Three, out."

Popping off a Jackal, Grace gazed northwards, wondering if Isaac, Anton and Vinh were fighting the same fight she was. Yet another question that would never be answered. Maybe they would forgive their allies for leaving them here to die. Maybe they wouldn't. Grace supposed she'd never know. Either way, she knew her main battle right now was to forgive herself...and to ensure her guilt didn't extend to those under her command.

Scanning the line and forming a retreat strategy in her mind, the Spartan prepared for her next battle.

* * *

**AV-14 Attack VTOL "Hornet"**

**Destination: Settlement 01 ("Thunderville")**

In normal circumstances, there might have been cursing. In normal circumstances, there might have been shouts and screams. Still, Vinh had learnt to accept that she and the other children of the Spartan-II Program were well beyond the range of normal. A range that might have involved the Hornet being shot down in the first wave of fuel rods that came her way.

"Hostiles, nine and three!" Isaac yelled, opening fire at the Banshee on the former bearing.

Vinh remained silent, spinning the Hornet around to meet the Banshee now approaching a five bearing. The type-26s had come at her directly, presumably re-routed from the Thunderville battlezone, but the combination of low visibility and the attack crafts' raw speed gave her little time to react and an even shorter amount of time to evade.

As plasma peppered the Hornet's hull, it seemed that the evasion time had expired.

Screaming like the creature of its namesake, the Banshee flew under the Hornet before the Spartan could adjust her bearings. Isaac was doing his part, but M443 rounds were only slightly more effective against the flyers than SAP-HE ones…in other words, only slightly less useless. This, under normal conditions, was where panic might translate into terror. In the realm of beyond normal…well, there was concern, but that could be just as deadly to the NCO's psyche. Almost as much as the pair of missiles Vinh send towards one of her attackers. To send the screamer back to its mounds of folklore.

"Evade! Say again, evade!"

Or not.

As sophisticated as the class-2 guided munition launch system was, it couldn't compete with a barrel roll that defied the laws of aerodynamics. The result was that the missiles went hurtling off into the night sky and a surge of green headed towards the Hornet instead. It had taken a second for Vinh to lock the VTOL in place for target lock, but that delay was all that was needed for her to be a sitting duck for the Banshee's return fire. And as maneuverable as the AV-14 was, that didn't stop it from losing its right wing.

Normal…that went out the airlock long ago.

Both of the Spartans remained silent as the craft descended towards the surface of Hope in a tail-spin, twirling like the outer rim of a black hole. For all intents and purposes, they might as well have been headed straight for one. With the sickening crash that always came with a crash landing (and after nearly ten years of fighting the Covenant, Vinh had experienced plenty of them), they might as well have fallen into one of the galaxy's invisible menaces. Blacking out…only a second, but what felt like ten times that number of time measurement.

"Vinh? Speak to me soldier!"

Flashing back into reality, ignoring the taste of blood and evaluating the flashing instrument panel of the Hornet, Vinh was unable to speak, let alone move. Luckily, Isaac handled both for her, smashing the cracked cockpit glass and pulling his fellow Spartan out of the pilot seat.

"Always knew women couldn't drive…"

Was that his attempt at humor? Well, better that than the despondence that had gripped her friend ever since this mission began, if not earlier.

The Hornet was wrecked, but could still provide cover. Still, unlike the marines that had run afoul of the type-26 ground support aircraft yesterday, that was probably a moot point. The Covenant wouldn't play with demons, even if they did have an advantage that couldn't be offset. Glancing at the flyers fly to the south in formation, Vinh suspected that all it would take would be too passes. One to remove the Hornet wreck, the next to eradicate its former occupants.

"Think we can hold out?" Isaac asked, gazing at the flyers as they moved around for another pass. "Think Thunderville still remembers us?"

"They've got…their own problems," Vinh rasped, trying her best to stay conscious as she drew out her own SMG alongside Isaac, wondering if concentrated fire might cause at least one of the flyers to veer off on its attack run. "They're not going to run the gauntlet just to get us."

Green 5 remained silent. There were some things that didn't need to be said. Or couldn't be. Besides, actions spoke louder than words, whether it be sustained gunfire or flyers that…weren't shooting at them at all.

…_what the?_

Vinh knew she wasn't completely cognitive, but that didn't change what she'd seen. The Banshees had been bearing down on them one second, but their arcs of plasma and radioactive fire were going all over them. Almost as if they were firing at something else. Something that might be related to the familiar sound of a LRV motor…

"Get in. Now."

_Anton?_

Either it was him, or some other member of Green Team had taken to riding around in a Warthog, evading poorly focused Banshee fire and drawing up beside the Hornet. Oh, and there was the fact that Vinh's HUD was indeed identifying Anton as Green 2. People lied, but technology didn't.

"Where've you been?" Vinh yelled, making her way to the passenger seat. "You were-…"

"MAC hit, radio contact became impossible. I've been following your craft since you started heading south. Sit-rep?"

"SNAFU," Isaac answered simply, manning the LAAG. "Now move."

_Great, so Sierra-039 is monosyllabic too._

As Anton gunned the engine, as Isaac unleashed Vulcan's fury, as the Banshees screamed like the devils of Hell itself, Vinh had to admit that that was the least of her problems.

Maybe they would be incinerated. Maybe they would be abandoned. Maybe the Covenant would win.

Well, as the Warthog's stored Jackhammer missile launcher would show, that didn't mean she was going to make it easy for them.

* * *

**UNSC **_**Haven**_

**Status: Critical**

Justin Sattler didn't feel like Lancelot. He didn't even know why Harwood had called him that. Granted, most of what little he knew about Arthurian mythology, or mythology of any kind mostly seemed to stem from Ulysses, but he was pretty sure a medieval knight wasn't responsible for the lives of hundreds of people on a starship, or even knew what a starship was. The Covenant was far more evil than Mordred or Morgana could ever be. And he _really _doubted the Knights of the Round Table would conceptualize research station detonations as part of their plan of attack. Oh, and there was-…

_I'm overanalyzing._

Analysis…that wasn't his job. Not anymore at any rate.

Still, the metaphor remained. Maybe imminent death had that effect on the human psyche. Maybe it was because the arrival of the Spartans reminded him of the Green Knight somewhat. Either way, with Stanforth's mug appearing on the view screen, he saw the proverbial Arthur either way.

"Captain Sattler…" the admiral began, exuding the kind of calm that Sattler wouldn't have thought possible given the current circumstances. "I see you're playing the shield rather than the sword."

_Speak literally!_

Crap, it was bad enough that everyone on his ship was either dead or dying, that the bridge was the only place that still had oxygen left and it was his job to act as a shield for the _Aeros_. Stanforth going poetical on him just wasn't helping.

"Sattler?"

"Yes sir, I'm the shield. I lost my last deck gun a few minutes ago."

"I noticed. And I'm afraid I can't give you a sword."

So _now _Stanforth was speaking literally. The literal truth was that his fleet was barely holding its own against a now cohesive Covenant armada. Sattler wasn't sure of the numbers that both forces had been reduced to. Somehow, he didn't want to know. Or maybe that as another explosion rocked the deck, the captain banging his forehead against a burnt out console, such information would be too much.

"I don't have much time," Stanforth continued, the shouts, sirens and sparks on his end reinforcing that point. "Nor do you. But just know that-…"

Sattler shut him off. He could enjoy the salutations in the process of mock funerals and a wasted coffin. It didn't suit either of them to get sentimental, especially since-…

"Justin?"

…scratch that.

Even in the midst of the sirens, the rumbling, the mesmerizing glow of plasma torpedoes tearing his ship apart as the Covenant warships crowded around him, Sattler still heard Harwood's voice. Like a siren, but steering him away from the rocks rather than to them. Granted it was her idea to head to them, but at least he didn't need any wax in his ears.

"What do you want?" Sattler asked, glancing at the viewscreen as he typed on one of the few remaining consoles, keeping the ship's reactors going even with the threat of overload. "I'm busy."

"Well I'm not. The reactors have gone critical. You've delivered the _Aeros _to the enemy's heart."

"Don't talk tactics with me."

"I'm not. I'm taking facts."

Sattler sighed. It was because of what Harwood said, but from one of her earlier sentences. He'd done it. The _Haven _had drawn the Covenant's fire, had brought everything from corvettes to cruisers on its port, bow and starboard. They'd chosen to ignore the _Aeros _all this time. A wise decision, if not for the recipe for disaster that was brewing within it.

And there was something else that made the CO go sedate. When he'd talked with…Mina, earlier, he'd said things that…well, he wasn't sure what they were. Here he was, a dead man, free to say whatever he wanted, yet couldn't. Back when he had a small chance of surviving, he was speaking like something out of _Under the Stars of New Jerusalem_. Apparently 25th century romance could be carried on into the 26th. Unfortunately.

"Justin? You there?"

"Yeah…I'm here."

Something smelt funny, and it wasn't ozone. Either way, Sattler met Harwood's gaze, and hers alone. Like him, she on the bridge, looking as worn and haggard as both of their ships were. Alone on the station…heck, maybe they'd always been alone. For three years, under the light of faded sun and distant star.

"I just want to know…if there's anything else that needs to be said."

Rocking the boat…it wasn't just the Covenant doing it.

"We said what he had to say…" answered the captain slowly. "We also did what he had to do."

"But do actions speak louder than words?"

"…not always."

Some might have disagreed. But there was no sound in space. Only light and darkness.

And as the captain and scientist met their gazes for the last time, as the _Aeros _detonated with the light of a thousand suns, Creation suddenly seemed a lot less dark.

* * *

**Settlement 01 ("Thunderville")**

"Nearly there private."

"Funny…usually that's what…I say…"

"Because you're a medic?"

Chambers didn't answer that question. Indeed, the fact that she'd spoken at all came as a great surprise to Jefferson, and he'd seen quite a lot over the last nine years. Well, whatever. All he saw now was a bunch of green outlines, courtesy of his HUD's VISR software. Specifically one outline of a D77-TC Pelican, two unusually tall humanoid outlines, and a small group of human sized outlines running towards the last transport off this rock. There _were _red outlines, but…well, he'd have to turn around to see them. And that wasn't too appealing right now.

"Come on people, move like you got a purpose!"

Jefferson rolled his eyes. Not only had he seen a lot in the past nine years, but he'd heard a lot too. And that moronic phrase never seemed to lose any of its idiocy. For starters, why would having a purpose make you move any faster? And if you did have a purpose, it seemed like a moot point when plasma was coming your way left right and centre.

"Charlie foxtrot! Incoming!"

Instinctively, Jefferson hit the dirt. Simultaneously, an unfortunate group of marines and civilians went the other way, disappearing in a cloud of blue mist. Like a blue star in a way…short lived, but incredibly deadly. Even more so than the swarm of aliens, on foot and on vehicles, heading their way.

Facing the horde, Jefferson hoped that the disadvantage of being on his backside wouldn't hinder his aim too much. The BR-55 was an accurate weapon…accurate enough so that even a faux soldier like himself could, after resting the stock against his shoulder, could thin the horde.

_Bam bam bam…_

Three bams, one Grunt dead. Added to which was another roar of gunfire and a whole lot of other aliens ate the dirt. Unfortunately, none of those aliens included those in the type-46 infantry support vehicle…heading straight for them.

_Shit shit shit!_

Jefferson struggled to his feet. So did Chambers. It was useless, it was...

"Run away!"

Jefferson shook his head, wondering if his suit's translation software had a glitch. Maybe it was from the red beam of light that had shot out from the landing zone. Either way, the Spectre was destroyed, so he wasn't complaining.

Nor was the Spartan-II wielding it, striding through the diminished crowd as if they were beneath him. Heck, considering he'd just totaled a Covenant LAV, maybe he was entitled to.

Gritting his teeth, Jefferson continued his half run, half stumble, Chambers weighing a lot more than he thought she would. She could still move, but no-one was going to get up and walk away after taking a plasma pistol round to the back. All that was left was to fly away. And that involved reaching the Pelican's blood tray. A blood tray that the sergeant realized had lived up to its namesake literally over the course of the battle.

"Sierra-093 calling _Leviathan _Actual! Zulu-902 is almost ready for departure! Prepare to receive momentarily."

"Acknowledged Sierra-093. We'll lay out the welcome mat."

Radio feed…it was such a wonderful thing. What was even more wonderful however, was stepping past the blood tray and into the overcrowded dropship. Still, even through the sea of humanity, Jefferson managed to get Chambers to a corner.

"And they say sergeants don't look out for the enlisted…" the ODST murmured, his only question now being when the hell this bird would begin to fly. "Well, no-one said-…"

"Where's Jack?"

Jefferson blinked, and not only because blood splattered across his visor as a still active medic tended to the bloody pulp that was a noncom's leg. He knew who "Jack" was. He also knew why Chambers would ask. What he didn't know was how to answer, or even if he should.

"I wouldn't worry about it," said the ODST softly, rubbing a glove over his visor, glad that nothing but the substance was red to distract him from the green. "He'll be-…"

"Where…is Jack?"

Jefferson sighed. Chambers had taken a heavy hit, but she was beginning to recover enough to meet his polarized gaze and stare at him in a manner that reminded him of…of…

_It's repeated history._

That was what did it. Chambers felt the same way he had when…when…

"I don't know," answered the NCO, talking to himself as much as the medic. "He…might be on a ship. He might be out there. I…just don't know."

Nature abhorred a vacuum. So did the human psyche.

Sighing, Jefferson turned his eyes back to the two Spartans, covering the last refugees as they made their way into the Pelican. There was no way of telling whether Hawkins was alive or not. He would have fought to cover the retreat and should have theoretically left after non-combatants, but as this Pelican showed, the withdrawal had become a mixed bag. And, as the last marine entered the dropship, a full one. All that was left was for the two remaining super soldiers to enter, tie the knot of the bag and hope it wasn't thrown into a grave.

"Alright, we're clear!" one of the two petty officers called out, this one wielding a modest M274H as opposed to the other's Galilean nonlinear rifle. "Let's…move…"

The Spartan trailed off. Curious, Jefferson shoved his way to the blood tray. Those two had held the line where others had failed, yet now, at the end of all things, something had caught their attention. And as he came to stand by them, he understood why.

Something was approaching Thunderville from the north.

And his VISR had it outlined in green…

* * *

**M12 LRV "Warthog"**

**Destination: Settlement 01 ("Thunderville")**

"Heads up. We're going in."

Ironic that it was Anton being the talkative one right now. Not Isaac, currently blazing away at the Banshees on their six. Not Vinh, currently in the process of shoveling the last HE rockets into the Jackhammer. No, it was Anton. Silent Anton. Scout Anton. Anton currently driving the LRV out of the frying pan and into the fire. Or perhaps more accurately, into the gauntlet.

"We got a plan?" Isaac yelled, keeping his grip on the LAAG as the vehicle swerved to avoid a fuel rod. "Straight through? Or loop around?"

"Straight through. We reach the transports and evacuate."

"If there's any there…"

Pessimism wasn't that useful, especially as one of the Banshees went down in flames courtesy of the Jackhammer. Still, better than being a backseat driver. Because now, at the end of all things…Isaac trusted his teammates.

As he swiveled the turret around as the Warthog 'jumped' down the slope that led to the smoldering settlement, a faint beacon in a world eclipsed in night, Isaac hoped that trust could extend to Anton's driving skills.

"Ghosts, twelve 0' clock," Anton murmured, a pair of hovercraft zipping out of the streets to meet them. Prepare to-…"

_Whoosh_

Vinh fired her last rocket, but still got two for the price of one. Tossing the rocket launcher aside and resting a SMG on the top of the Warthog's windscreen, it was clear she was looking for other bargains as well.

"Grunts, three o'clock!"

Isaac opened fire, the arthropods realizing their error and retreating back to-…"

"Jackals, ten o'clock!"

Vinh opened fire. Not enough to down the critters, but enough time for Isaac to spin round the LAAG at-…"

"Wraith, twelve o'…hang on!"

Isaac did hang on. As Anton swerved down a side street, it was the only thing that was preventing him from the pool of melted soil that formed in his wake.

"Elites! Take them-…"

Green 5 fired. So did the Elites. Or at least they did after getting into cover.

"We're on side-streets," Anton murmured, running over the wreckage of a few Ghosts and the bodies still in them. "Green Four, on nav."

"This place hasn't been mapped."

"What?"

"I said Thunderville hasn't been mapped, there's no nav system for it!" the Spartan yelled, reloading another clip for the SMG and opening fire at the crew of an approaching Spectre. "You want your destination? Follow the gunfire!"

Gunfire…even as Isaac swiveled around from another Ghost and opened fire at the typ-46, he could still here it. The gunfire…the last bastion of humanity on this planet. The-…"

"Wraith!"

Isaac glanced at their twelve, seeing yet another type-26 facing them down. A type 26 that-…"

"Hang on!"

Another side street, another missed opportunity for the Covenant, another…Elite that was splattered. Or rather an Elite pinned to the bumper, roaring and cursing in its alien tongue. And as Vinh smashed the windscreen and unloaded a barrage of caseless rounds into it, a dead Elite.

"Ghosts! Two o'-…"

Isaac fired. The Grunts screamed.

"Banshees! Seven on'-…"

Isaac swiveled round. It was a fast motion, but not fast enough to draw the flyers into a firing line before they opened fire in turn. A pair of fuel rods coursed through the air, ready to-…

"Right!"

Green 2 swerved…he may not have understood Isaac's exclamation, but at least he'd followed it. He had to keep his eyes on the game ahead. But that didn't mean he couldn't react to what was-…"

"Left!"

The Warthog swerved. Again.

It was like this for about half a minute. Isaac didn't know what was ahead, but he could assume that his fellow NCOs could handle it, given that the Warthog was still going and the sound of Green 4's gunfire could still be heard. It might have continued for longer, if not for-…

"Isaac, get down!"

"What?"

"I said get down!" Anton yelled.

Spartan-039 glanced forward to see why…and understood. A Shadow. A transport that was blocking the end of this street. A transport whose arc like form would allow the Warthog to drive under it…maybe…

"**I said get down!"**

Green 5 obliged. The LAAG didn't. And as the turret was torn right off, it paid the price.

"Alright, take a left!" Vinh yelled, still firing at everything left, right and centre of the LRV. "Evacuation zone should be just ahead!"

Holding on for dear life, Isaac glanced around. They were indeed on the last run, assuming that the evac zone was still in the settlement's centre. And assuming that plasma being fired from every angle wouldn't stop them. The final run would have been a killzone for the Covenant. Now they were making the run themselves, and-…

"Gah!"

Isaac winced as a series of blue bolts tore into Vinh, causing her to keel over. Her armor had stopped them mostly, but even MJOLNIR Mk. IV wasn't perfect. Only Covenant shields would provide complete protection, and that was a long way off.

_Assuming we live to see it…_

Which, as another flight of Banshees formed on their tail, was an assumption that might not be validated.

Green 5 took out his SMG, wondering what good it would do. He'd been able to direct Anton earlier, but with plasma fire already streaming at the vehicle from all sides, along with Vinh being unable to return fire, it was doubtful whether Spartan-044 could react. And besides, back when he'd been giving directions, Isaac had been able to return fire of his own, forcing the Banshee pilots to strike a balance between evasion and return fire. Now no such balance had to be struck. Once they fired, it would all be-…

**Boom!**

…over?

Isaac didn't blink, his visor protecting his eyes from the fire of one of the type-26s going out in a blaze of glory. Yet he was still surprised. What had caused it?

**Boom!**

…well, given the red stream of energy that had shot out from the LZ, he'd have to guess it was a Spartan Laser.

"Green Five, Green Four, Green Two!" came the voice of the squad's leader over their radio. "Are you receiving?"

"Acknowledged, Green Leader," Anton responded, ducking down to take the message and evade a barrage of needler rounds. "We're approaching the LZ. Do we still have evac?"

"One last bird, and it doesn't like having its wings clipped. But it'll fly once you're onboard."

"Affirmative. We'll see you on the flight line."

It was incredible how calm Anton could be. Maybe even astonishing, considering that a) the Covenant were still firing, b) Vinh and Isaac were unable to effectively fire back and c), the proverbial nest was being blocked off by a barricade. A barricade of everything but the kitchen sink that the Warthog couldn't bypass. A barricade that Anton was driving straight towards.

"Um, Green Two?" Vinh asked softly. "What are you-…"

"Jumping like a pig."

There was no light. But Isaac still blinked.

Warthogs were widespread…so widespread that one had even formed part of the barricade, its undercarriage reflecting the light of both alien and stellar plasma. Coupled with its tires, its ramp like position…oh hell…

_One pig's going to jump over the other._

Kneeling down, both to minimize his exposure and to keep his grip, Isaac waited to see whether Anton would send them flying to the bird, or see them dropping like a bat.

The Warthog jumped…the Warthog flew…the Warthog fell…

Things seemed to slow down as Isaac realized that Anton's plan had worked in form, if not in spirit. Yes, he'd somehow 'bounced' off the destroyed LRV, using the momentum to sail through the air. Unfortunately, the angle wasn't perfect. The Warthog was tipping to the side, and would likely land in the same way that the earlier 'pig' had. And there was a lot of plasma around to turn it into bacon…

"Out! Now!"

Green Five didn't give either of his comrades a chance to respond. Grabbing them on the shoulders and rolling out of the airborne vehicle just before it crash landed, there wasn't enough time.

Isaac was the first to regain his bearings, swiveling his SMG around to gauge the immediate threat. As the Covenant poured over the barricade, yelling and screaming, seemingly more intent on tearing the Spartans apart in close combat, he understood why.

_Well that's great…_the petty officer thought to himself. _But where are the Covenant on this side of the barricade?_

"Green Team, heads down!"

…_oh. That's where._

The absence of aliens could have been explained by them being diverted out of the LZ to deal with the rogue Warthog. Or maybe the presence of Grace and Joshua could account for it. A presence that involved the former wielding a M274H and providing the covering fire their squad leader had warned them about.

_Wait, wasn't her arm broken?_

It was a legitimate question, and Isaac could only guess at the pain the machine gun's recoil was causing Green 3. Still, maybe the Covenant being in a lot more pain made up for it.

"Come on Green Team!" Joshua yelled, helping Anton sling Grace over his back. "Double time!"

Rising to his feet as Grace discarded the machine gun, Isaac didn't see any reason not to obey. Five Spartans, four of them running, immediately set off for the Olympics of life and death. The competitors were angry, and only the waiting Pelican had the medals they needed to get off this rock.

"Zulu-902, begin liftoff!" Joshua yelled into his radio. "We're oscar mike, we'll join you on the flight line."

_I hope…_Isaac reflected to himself, not possessing the urge to say it out loud. It wouldn't do the team any good and right now, his team was all that mattered. He…believed in them. He believed in-…

"Gah!"

The Spartan keeled down, tripping into the soil. Something was burning and as he glanced back, he realized it was the back of his right leg. Well, it was burning, but the plasma and armor had done their job. The result was that while the fire was out, the embers remained. And they weren't going to make movement easy.

_If you don't...believe...in yourself...in what you fight for...then you're indeed a tool. A weapon._

Gritting his teeth, Isaac rose to his feet, waving Josh and the others forward as they glanced back at them. The Covenant were getting closer, his teammates were getting further, but he wasn't going to change that. Still, in the case of the latter, a grenade might...

The Spartan didn't glance to see how much damage the fragmentation grenade did as he tossed it over his shoulder. It was important to keep one's eyes on the ball, or in this case, the Pelican. A dropship that his team had boarded and was already lifting off.

"Come on Spartan, double time! Now!"

"Come on Isaac, move!"

Gritting his teeth, ignoring the pain, overcoming the urge to face those bearing down on him from behind, Isaac ran. Forward, not backwards. To what lay ahead. To those who mattered. He didn't have to fight his battles alone...maybe. He'd done it with Kirk after all. But maybe that was the whole point. Kirk had fought alone and lost. While as for himself...

_A means to an end. But you're not. We're not. No-one...is..._

A leap of faith...Green 5 made it. A leap to the blood tray as the dropship took to the air...he grabbed it.

It was a tenacious hold, and it couldn't last forever. Sooner or later the ramp would close to protect its occupants from the void. Sooner or later, the Pelican would reach escape velocity, sending the Spartan tumbling down to oblivion. Sooner or later...salvation would come. And as Joshua stretched out his hand, as Isaac grasped it...it was taken.

And with its last passenger onboard, as the walkway to the material closed, the dropship ascended into the heavens.

* * *

**Forerunner relic (interior)**

The foundation had been entered. Ascension was nigh.

Devotion had been terrified at first when the sound of an impact rocked the valley, one that seemed to emanate from the relic itself. He didn't know exactly what had happened, but given the use of a shield to protect itself, the san 'shyuum could make a good guess. In their usual petty vindictiveness, the humans had tried to destroy a vassal of the gods, to ruin that which they could not create nor claim ownership to. The structure still stood, unblemished in its glory, but still, it irked him. The sheer audacity, the _arrogance _of the savages...as unwelcome as the Fleet of Purity's arrival was, it at least provided the Prophet with the solace that noble combat in the vacuum of space could provide. Filth couldn't contaminate such an environment after all.

And now, the moment of truth had come. Alongside the faithful, he had waited and watched. Sensors indicated the lowering of the shield, the stream of light to the Beyond had ceased...the relic was ready and waiting. For him. For the vassal of the gods to make his mark on history, to make space and time itself echo with his name. And with that, the san 'shyuum and jiralhanae bodyguards had entered.

_It's...just like I expected._

The relic was just that...a relic. Far removed from the grandeur of other artefacts the Covenant knew of, whether they be on Sanghelios or even the world humanity called Harvest. To an outsider, it would have seemed strange that the Prophet would have found this comforting. But they didn't know what he did. A lone servant of the hierarchs on a solitary ship assigned to look for the sacred rings? Bah. There were far more real sources of power in this universe, sources that the gods had wisely sought to bury. But Devotion knew what to look for, knew what such a place might hold. The power of godhood...for him alone. The reason why he didn't want any external forces interfering with his plans. Plans that had been accelerated, but still intact.

Those who came before had squabbled...but they were many. They were equals, and like all great races, sought to increase their strength. But Devotion would be alone. He would be the first, and last san 'shyuum to rule the Covenant alone. Truth, Mercy, Regret...three of his kind that had swindled power nine years ago, leading the Covenant out of the Twenty-Third Age of Doubt to the Ninth Age of Reclamation. They had no idea what awaited them, no idea how short this new age would be...

And it would end once he reached the relic's heart.

The jiralhanae didn't appear to have any reservations about this task, as potentially hazardous as it was. Something had taken out the sangheili he'd sent in earlier, their bodies lying alongside the human soldiers in testament to this. Still, the pack was unfazed, kicking aside any body that was in their way and even kicking a few that weren't. Their disdain for both species was crystal clear...as clear as Devotion's divinity would be once he seized godhood. That was the beauty of an empire based around faith. People would accept anything without question. Well, most people...but as 'Tikawomee's demise had demonstrated, asking questions was neither wanted or needed.

Devotion smiled...he wouldn't miss the shipmaster. Even if he would have made a good sacrifice...

"My lord..." Aratus began, his words drawing the san 'shyuum out of his dreaming along with his smell. "We have reached the relic's heart."

Devotion nodded, gesturing to the jiralhanae to let him through. The control room was enormous...as was to be expected. Still bearing the signs of age, even a few signs of a scuffle, but it was here. His destiny. His moment of glory. His...wait a minute...

"Aratus..." Devotion began slowly. "What is that...thing?"

Following the Prophet's narrow finger, the jiralhanae closed in on the "thing." A cylindrical thing, resting on the walkway that connected the control room's core to the rest of the installation. A thing that was certainly not of Covenant origin and hardly befitting of the Forerunners either.

"A human device..." the pack leader began, sniffing the metal as the Prophet drew closer. "Its purpose however..."

Devotion stared at the device, noticing what he'd missed before...a display. A series of strange red symbols, changing in sequence...

**00:00:06**

**00:00:05**

**00:00:04**

"Aratus?" Devotion asked softly, feeling uneasy in light of his lack of knowledge and the humility of having to ask a jiralhanae for it. "What do you make of this?"

"I do not know, my lord. However, it seems to be some kind of count-..."

**00:00:00**

* * *

"Zulu-902 is aboard. Prepare for slipspace exit."

Throughout Chi Mu, bursts of light formed.

Brief candles, illuminating, memorializing the fall of its fourth planet, a fiery candle briefly forming on its surface as well. Each from an ark, bearing its passengers across uncertain waters to uncertain shores. All arks fleeing the Covenant. Hope was gone. Lost. A statistic.

And then the lights dimmed, leaving only the victors.

In time, all things fade.

In time, all things are forgotten.

Some things, like vessels of power best never created, are best left forgotten.

Other things in this universe...are not.

* * *

_A/N_

_I'll admit to watching/listening to the end run sections for _Combat Evolved _and _Halo 3 _to get in the 'mood' for this chapter when I wrote it. Gave me the idea of blowing the planet up for the sake of it as a side effect, but luckily I was able to resist the siren song of the Rule of Cool. Or, in this case, an idea I'm glad I didn't follow through on. 0_0_

_Update (08/05/2011): Corrected grammar error._


	18. The Light in the Darkness

.

**Halo: Shadows of Hope**

**Chapter 18: The Light in the Darkness**

**UNSC Prowler **_**Dark Shore**_

**In orbit around Planet Chi Mu E-1**

The planet was effectively nameless. Whatever name the former inhabitants of Hope might have given their star system's only gas giant was irrelevant. It was a number in UEG planetary databases. A blip. A statistic. For all intents and purposes, it may as well not have even existed. A trait shared by what had become its twenty-ninth satellite in recent days, far smaller than the other natural twenty-eight. The _Dark Shore _didn't exist. Its crew didn't exist. And thanks to a job well done in this star system, it never _would_ exist.

Ignominy...Keancros could appreciate it.

Residing in a single-occupant control room, a position mostly reserved for Prowlers with minimal crew, the shadow allowed himself to slightly more luminous, pouring himself a glass of water. Bare necessities only on these ships, however unpleasant that might be. If it wasn't for the conclusion of his operation in Chi Mu, he wouldn't be drinking at all. Still, it was a subconscious habit, a human desire to make the best of a good situation when it was part of a much larger desperate one. Well, desperate times called for desperate measures and while he held no regrets, Keancros could nonetheless appreciate that.

He took a sip of the water. Stale and dull. Just like this starship.

Prowlers lived up to their namesake, equipped with stealth technology ranging from counter-electronic systems to stealth ablative coating. It would have been difficult enough for either the _Haven _or _Aeros _to detect the _Dark Shore _in normal circumstances, but with the stealth ship nestled within E-1's gravity and magnetic field...well, it was no Jupiter, but there was enough influence to hide it even further. Coupled with the fact that Chi Mu didn't follow Bode's law and developments in real-time slipspace communication, it was possible to communicate with Sattler and Harwood without the risk of being traced being presented. Not even the Covenant had given any indication that they knew of the Prowler's presence. Yet another cherry on top of a cake that was slightly less stale than the water he was drinking.

Keancros rose the glass again...then tossed it aside. Bad enough it tasted the way it did, but the plastic being used belonged to an age centuries ago.

Rubbing his eyes and fighting the urge to get a proper sleep as opposed to cryo, Keancros briefly ran over the facts. SK-018 was neutralized, but not before proving that the entire concept of a Reaper was flawed. The relic was destroyed as well...a shame in a sense, but if there was any truth to the Covenant log the subject had observed or been informed of, maybe that was just as well. Keancros didn't know what to make of the structure, whether it was actually Covenant or the product of another race entirely, but either way, that wasn't his problem. Nor was it Sattler or Harwood's, the pair having gone down with their respective ships...technically a boon, but still, Keancros couldn't help but feel some regret, however brief. Indeed, Harwood might have saved more lives in death than she ever had in life given her last gambit. The _Aeros _had gone out like a nova, thanks to its reactors...yes, that would be something to investigate. Just as much as the Reaper armour design...something the UNSC Ordnance Committee could review. Facility RKD had been clamouring for a spin-off of MJOLNIR for some time and Keancros would have been more than happy to give it to them. For unlike the Reaper concept, mere armour would pose no threat to S-III. Heck, it might even benefit them in the long run.

Closing his eyes, deciding to sleep regardless of circumstance or time, Keancros knew that it wasn't over. Not in the long run and given the report he'd have to write in regards to these events, not in the short run either. Idly typing on the keyboard, he supposed he should get his name, rank and serial number down first. Start with a K, write down the next eight letters, then...wait...

_I don't need to do that. Reaper's over...the brass know who I am..._

On screen, the word KEANCROS had been written. Well, no matter. A quick re-arranging of letters was all that was needed...a reverse, effectively...

Very soon, it had been returned to ACKERSON.

* * *

_**Marathon**_**-class cruiser **_**Leviathan**_

**Status: Within slipspace**

"Well, I won't say it's as good as new, but..."

"I'm the medic, sergeant. You don't need to lay out the basics for me."

Jefferson grimaced, a gesture that Chambers could see now that his helmet was taken off. The marine's back was a scarred mess, even with the healing lubricant he'd rubbed onto it. Chambers would have no doubt been more qualified...heck, she could even pronounce the medicine's _name_, but with the _Leviathan _having become a floating hospital for Hope's more unfortunate souls, a bit of plasma scarring hardly qualified as urgent. Still, the Helljumper had helped out. He only knew the basics of first-aid, but if those basics could be applied, he might as well use them.

_Wish some other basics could be applied..._

The sergeant shook the thoughts away. Wishes were like lead paint-delicious but deadly. Indulge in them for too long and you'd render up incognitive.

Rising to his feet, the ODST wondered if he should put his helmet back on. It would be overkill inside a warship like this, but with the smell of blood and sweat permeating the air, it was about the only thing that could shield him from it. Chambers didn't look too good herself, and not only because of the plasma scarring. Maybe it was because she didn't have much experience. Or maybe it was-...

"Sarge?"

"Yeah?"

"I don't suppose you've heard anything from Jack?"

...yeah, that was it.

The sergeant sighed, running a hand through his longer than average hair awkwardly. He felt like he'd been put on the spot, and the longer than regulation haircut wasn't helping anything. He wasn't sure what he was meant to say in this situation-heck, he shouldn't have had to say anything at all. Surely Chambers must have realized by now that her friend was in all likelihood, dead from the same plasma that had wounded her earlier.

"Chambers, I..."

"Don't beat around the bush sarge."

_Beat around the bush? I...crap, we need a new Corps for this! Break bad news to comrades corps, what a-..._

"Who said anything about a bush?"

Jefferson span around. Chambers looked up. Everyone else...did nothing, considering that they were either drowning in blood, sorrow or both. So when Jack Hawkins appeared on E deck, missing his helmet, all of his armour bar his left leg guard, a uniform that looked like it had been at the mercy of an ice hound and bumps and bruises on every patch of exposed skin, the ODST and medic were the only ones who noticed. Looking at the expressions of joy on both jarheads' faces though...Jefferson reflected that they were the only ones who needed to.

"Jack!"

"Rachel!"

Jefferson winced, even as he helped the medic recover from her failed attempt to get up, murmuring something about not taxing her back. Right now, all of a sudden, he wanted to get to a different deck entirely. Let the two lucky ones have their privacy. Clearly he'd been forgotten in the short run, the pair in an embrace as Hawkins gave accounts of everything in the Covenant arsenal that might have passed as being genuine if not for his obvious exaggerations. Not that Chambers seemed to notice. If anything, she seemed to find them endearing.

_Reverse Darwinism, the pairing of the most idiotic...crap, no wonder regulations against fraternisation exist._

"Hey sarge?"

Jefferson winced...again. Not only had Hawkins broken out of the hug long enough to notice him, but he was following his girlfriend's example and calling him "sarge." Right...a NCO...of course that was what he was.

"Private..." the ODST began slowly, watching as Hawkins scrambled to his feet with the grace of a chimpanzee. "I see that you got off Hope."

"Yeah...I was assigned to some civvies on an early evac bird," the private answered. "Only got out of the hanger bay."

"Uh-uh...well, I'll leave you to it. This isn't Hope, this isn't the barracks, so-..."

"Wait."

Jefferson had hoped that Hawkins would take the hint. When an ODST turned around, he turned around and didn't look back (well, at least according to propaganda posters that always seemed to feature a rising or setting sun). Not that he was actually a Helljumper, but he doubted Hawkins would realize that. He doubted that anyone would, what with the destruction of the _Aeros_.

"I...wanted to thank you..." the jarhead began awkwardly, rubbing his right shoulder in a manner that suggested it wasn't to alleviate muscle pain. "I mean, we had our differences...the barracks, the evac zone...but I just want to say thank you. We both do."

And with that, he stuck out his hand. The olive branch.

_Son of a..._

The ODST blinked, unsure of what to do. Insist that Hawkins salute? Walk away? Draw the conversation out longer? Or should he...

_Ah, screw it. They aren't relics._

Humans...you couldn't analyse them. Taking the private's hand and shaking it, Jefferson was reminded of that. Maybe that was why he'd thrown the book at the pair back on Hope, why he'd done a 180 later and helped both kids get off the world. Maybe it was because he didn't want to be the only survivor...like on Sanctuary. Maybe it was because they reminded him of the ones he lost...and what their budding attraction reminded himself of...

_Hope...Sanctuary...these relics are everywhere..._

Well, no matter. The non-coms didn't know what had transpired way back then. They weren't entitled to know and as they lay alongside the deck wall alongside each other, they clearly didn't need to know either. Sure, they'd probably die sometime within the next year and/or be assigned to different units...still, the ODST saw no harm in letting them have their friendship be complicated for now. Complications weren't always bad...

Turning away, ignoring the marines, swabbies, civilians and even a Spartan he saw walking by, Jefferson returned to walking his road.

Alone.

* * *

_**Reverence**_**-class cruiser **_**Shining Light**_

**Chi Mu System**

"Here they are, my lord. Devotion's logs."

"The originals have been deleted, shipmaster?"

"Yes. These are the only remaining copy."

"Good. Leave me."

It was almost amusing. With another being, say one of his own kind, the Prophet would have had to take steps to ensure that no-one else had glanced at the logs and if they had, make more plans as the ramifications dictated. With the sangheili however...well, in this regard, they were just like the jiralhanae. Blind through faith rather than obedience, smarter rather than stronger. For all the lack of initiative that had been displayed nine years ago, the Prophet had to wonder if a new course should be taken. Well, no matter. Few had questioned the course of this war and with the destruction of this world's relic, even fewer would. Yet more evidence of humanity's destructive goals.

Uploading Devotion's data, the Prophet knew that the silence in his quarters was misleading. The _Shining Light _was the flagship of the Fleet of Purity and it behove it to lead the glassing of the world's human settlement. Not that there was much left to glass, but sometimes an example had to be set. He'd even learnt it himself, learnt that sangheili honour did not mean a fleet should hold back in such circumstances. The _Divine Crusader _had taken the world, but had let many of its occupants escape. Had the fleet arrived from the start, the situation would have been entirely different. An intact relic for starters...

...a relic that, judging from these logs, Devotion intended to utilize.

The hierarch doubted this was indicative of most of his kind. The shift from an Age of Doubt to an Age of Reclamation was not as tumultuous as other transitions in Covenant history and coupled with the threat before them, had quickly polarized all other contenders against the union's enemy. Clearly Devotion had spent too much time alone, too much time reading apocrypha, too much time indulging in destructive dreams. To become a god, to rule alone...ridiculous...

The Prophet closed the files and deleted them. No-one could learn of what Devotion had done. No-one could suspect that there was even a fraction of discord among the san 'shyuum. This world would be cleansed, abandoned and forgotten. No-one would ever learn of its secrets.

Allowing himself a small smile, the Prophet lay back in his gravity throne. To a lesser mind, the task would seem quite daunting. But not for him.

After all, the Prophet of Truth was very good at keeping secrets...

* * *

_**Marathon**_**-class cruiser **_**Leviathan**_

**Status: Within slipspace**

Despite wearing half a tonne of power armour, despite being taller, stronger and faster than any other human on this ship bar the rest of Green Team, Isaac-039 was effectively anonymous.

All in all, the super soldier wasn't that surprised. On the battlefield, Spartans were beacons, banners to rally around and fight the good fight. Off the battlefield, they technically didn't exist. Off the battlefield, they were a reminder of everything that encompassed war, the opposite of everything the brief respites from it did not. People didn't want to be reminded of the battles they waged. Isaac had served his part on Hope, now he was an unpleasant reminder of it. Officially, the Spartan-II Program didn't exist. As no-one dared meet his gaze, it was clear it didn't exist unofficially either.

Which suited the petty officer just fine. He felt like some privacy now.

Reaching the end of E deck, coming to a series of windows that looked out towards the cruiser's starboard side, the Spartan looked out into the nothingness of slipspace. Pitch black, bereft of all life and light...something to do with there being nothing in the visible spectrum to see. It therefore wasn't really a spectacle people lined up to view, why observation decks on luxury transports were only used to showcase planets and stars. Yet Isaac found himself enjoying the solitude. It was empty...yet not hollow. For all the rage of the eleven dimensions of the slipstream, it was peaceful...natural...always flowing, always moving, always with purpose. After all that had been said and done on a small world orbiting Chi Mu, the Spartan found it soothing. Hundreds, thousands, maybe tens of thousands had reached such oblivion over the past few days, as December and the year drew to a close. Come 2535, and there'd be yet another UEG colony struck from the records. Insignificant in the greater scheme of things. But for now, Isaac felt at peace.

"You never truly appreciate what you have...until it's gone."

Well, he _had _felt at peace...

Isaac glanced at the...intruder, as his mind automatically classified the girl that had suddenly appeared beside him. Dark haired, dark eyed, probably in her late teens if he had to guess. A girl that met his hidden gaze with her own, apparently not at all intimidated with a seven foot tall behemoth looking down on her.

"Hope..." she said slowly. "What wasn't appreciated..."

Isaac continued to stare. Dry blood and a few plasma burns covered her skin, but she was otherwise in decent physical condition. Psychologically...he wasn't so sure. Not after Kirk...after Keancros...after everything that had happened.

"I'm Tara," the girl continued offhandedly, turning her gaze back to the emptiness of slipspace as she did so. She let out a sigh, running a hand through her hair and letting a few specks of dry blood fall out. "Lived on Hope...didn't appreciate what I had until now...lost my brother, a close friend...don't think I appreciated what I had until I lost them either."

"I'm...sorry."

They were basic words, but the Spartan wasn't sure what else he could say. It didn't know how to provide sympathy...true, he felt it, but his homeworld was still safe and orbiting Epsilon Eridani, he'd seen and understood death since the age of six...he understood the ramifications of such losses, but he wasn't sure how to deal with them. Simply put, he'd never had to face up to them.

_Oh, like Kirk and René you mean?_

Isaac winced. This girl was making him uneasy...ironic, considering that he was something more than human. Luckily, she seemed ready to wrap things up. Either she'd said all she had to, or had realized that Spartans didn't provide good listeners.

"I should go..." Tara said eventually, turning her gaze back to Isaac's. "Just...thank you."

"For what?"

"For saving our world. You did all that you could, and for that, I'm grateful. We all are."

Isaac watched the girl walk off, not missing the pistol holstered in her belt and murmurs that "we're just getting started." He could guess what might happen next, even if his understanding of psychology stemmed from unofficial interaction with Halsey, Mendez and Déjà. Anger, the need for revenge...come early next year, and some branch of the UNSCDF would be getting a new recruit. Some might call it appropriate, even heroic. But right now...he wasn't sure what it was. If anything, it just seemed wrong somehow. To lose everything but your life, only to join a machine that would make you lose even that eventually...like Kirk and René had lost theirs. Even those ranging from Harwood to Ellison stirred memories. Sighing, Isaac used one hand to loosen his helmet while using his other to raid an ammo pouch. He couldn't put this off any longer. Not if he wanted to be counted as a useful member of Green Team, or even a useful soldier period.

In one hand, hung the helmet, before it hit the deck floor. In the other, was the picture. Taken a decade ago...the only way he could see Kirk and René now.

Isaac glanced at his younger self first, then at his faint reflection in the window. The boy in the photo was younger, shorter, less muscular, had far more hair and was less pale. Yet it was still him, the Spartan reminded himself. Isaac-039...it was proof that...that...well, he didn't know what it proved. Nothing apart from the fact that Kirk and René had been his friends. Proof that...that he had to move on. To put the picture away.

_Kirk and René are dead. Maybe they died nine years ago, maybe they died less than a week ago..._

Isaac could accept that. It wasn't pleasant, but too many people were counting on him to do otherwise. Maybe Kirk, in the last moments of his life, in a brief return to the person he once was...had seen that...

"_I know what's...troubling you. And I'll tell you this. If you don't...believe...in yourself...in what you fight for...then you're indeed a tool. A weapon. A means to an end. But you're not. We're not. No-one...is... I did what I believed was right. I believe in myself. Can you say the same?"_

Isaac smiled faintly, glancing at the photo one last time before folding it away...to join his team...to prepare for the next battle. To ensure that what had happened at Hope would never happen again...

He could say the same.

**The End**

* * *

_A/N_

_So, that's that. First concieved in 2006, fully written in 2010 and now, in 2011, fully posted. And as such, this is the point where I go on the "go me" tangent to a certain extent. Still, being the last chapter, there's stuff I'd like to address here both in regards to the chapter itself and the story as a whole. _

_Starting with the former, I guess there's two main things to address. Namely, it's the ending and information provided in _Evolutions _that prompted me to change the fleet commander from Cole to Stanforth. As revealed in the book, Cole never backed down and on the rare occassion that he did, he always came back for seconds. I was reluctant to make Hope one of those exceptions, especially since I suspect that more of Cole will be revealed in Traviss's novel trilogy (insert rant here). Anyway, played it safe. The second issue stemmed from _The Cole Protocol _and was the final step in me putting this story on the backburner years ago before coming back to it after _Denial_. The idea was that Devotion's use of jiralhanae and pursuit of godhood would be the catalyst for Truth going down a similar path. In the realm of fanfiction, I find such approaches work extremely well or come off as pretentious, but either way, it was rendered a moot point. Even if there were signs of discord between Truth and Regret in regards to their different approaches to the Rubble, it was clear at the end that the Prophets were still effectively on the level. So while I included some veiled references to future events here, I had to cut out the catalyst aspect and threads leading to such a result in earlier chapters, said revision spurring the revision of this story as a whole._

_So now, to address the actual story. Effectively, it's the last of the 'black sheep' stories I wrote over my first year of writing in 2006-writing multi-chapters left, right and centre with no real conception of length or quality. With the completion of this story, all of the 'sheep' have either been completed, deleted or discontinued. Kind of the end of an era in a sense, but considering I've actually begun and ended other stories over the course of posting this one, given differing lengths, it's spared you a 'nostalgia moment.' Anyway, at this time of writing, I have three more _Halo _stories on my 'to write' list. _Sanctuary _stands as a sort of 'character prequel' to this one, with no prizes being awarded as to who said character is. _Farthest Reach _is a post-_Halo 3 _story while _The Orion Chronicles _is a collection of oneshots based on deleted material. My current writing focus right now however is on a _Battlestar Galactica _fic titled _Final Five_-which goes to show that my subtlties for naming stories in regards to specific characters are about as non-existant as the dodo. Still, thanks to everyone who reviewed and hopefully the five year wait from conception to completion was worth it._

_Update (08/05/2011): Corrected spelling and grammar errors._


End file.
